No Rest for the Wicked
by trueunbeliever
Summary: When Sam joins his brother and the BAU on a case involving cryptic Enochian messages, Dean is kidnapped and tortured by a religious cult. Dean now has two choices: break and become the killer they want him to be, or hold out long enough to be rescued. They have no suspects. They have no leads. Will they ever see Dean again? COMPLETE. Please review :) All comments are welcome.
1. Winchester Brothers

_Hello, Fearless Readers. Welcome to my second fic ever,_ "_No Rest for the Wicked." This is loosely based on season 4 of _Supernatural_ with spoilers for the entire season. References up to season 4 of _Criminal Minds_ as well. This fic is based in the CM 'verse so the supernatural does not exist. _

_WARNING: This fic is rated **Mature**. There is a reason for this. Depictions of violence, torture, and child abuse are included in graphic detail. I will make sure to post warnings at the beginnings of extremely graphic chapters so don't worry about it taking you completely by surprise. _

_Reviews! They make the world go round. They light up my life. They bring a smile to my face. They complete me. Follow and review, Readers. I look forward to hearing from you :) Read on!_

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Jennifer Jareau walked through the bullpen and up to the desk of one Dean Winchester. This, in itself, was enough to have the rest of the team instantly aware of her presence. JJ almost never went into the bullpen. Even the cases she picked were presented in the conference room. They saw glimpses of her during the day, but if she wasn't found in her office or in the break room, she was in one of her thousand daily meetings with superiors the team hadn't even heard of—except, perhaps Spencer Reid, who'd had the entire FBI personnel record at the Quantico field office memorized before he'd even arrived.

So JJ entering the bullpen instantly brought everyone's eyes to her as she pulled Winchester aside and whispered with him for a few minutes.

Dean smiled, nodded, and JJ made a prompt exit, heading to their supervisor's office with their next case. Aaron Hotchner wasn't the nicest man in the world, but if JJ was the mother, Hotch was the father. For a crack team of profilers who had daddy issues in spades, having a good man like him in charge was much appreciated.

"Oooh, what was that all about?" Morgan teased Dean. Derek and Dean were often referred to as the 'twins' on the team. They were both wired pretty much identical in every way but skin tone. If JJ was the mom and Hotch was the dad of this small team they all called family, both Morgan and Winchester coined the slot of 'protective older brother.'

"Oh, leave him alone, Morgan," Emily Prentiss said. "You know JJ's too smart to fall for him. He'd go after anything with a skirt, and I do mean anything." She chuckled.

"You wound me," Dean said, dramatically holding his hands to his chest and miming falling to the ground.

"She did, actually," Reid interjected good-naturedly. "Remember last week when Morgan used you as the attacker in hand-to-hand combat training? I believe you walked away with some pretty large bruises." Unlike the rest of the team who had a healthy balance of physical and mental capabilities, Reid was the runt of the litter and too smart for his own good sometimes. Some exceptions—most of them, really—had to be made to allow him in the bureau as a field agent, but the way his brain was set up, he could have had any job he wanted. The BAU was just where he belonged.

Dean winced at the remembrance of practice last week. He'd been trying to take it easy on the female agent. He just didn't realize she didn't need him to. "Oh, I remember all right," he said, smirking. "How long was she on me, Reid? A bit too long to justify it, I think." He winked at Emily and she rolled her eyes.

"Enough you two," Gideon interjected, trying to stop them before they really got started. Winchester was a hopeless flirt and Prentiss would banter with him all day. The older agent wouldn't be able to continue working in the same room if they really got started. "Don't you all have paperwork to do?"

Dean groaned and Morgan rolled his eyes, smiling, but Gideon was right. They'd just come off a case and with their Unsub dead there was more than enough paperwork to go around.

They all worked together in silence for a while catching up on things they normally didn't have time for with their caseload. Being out of town two weeks out of the month made deskwork pile up faster than any of them thought possible. Even with all of them sneaking files onto Reid's desk, it would be hours before any of them finished.

Hotch exited his office. "Conference room, five minutes," he said, walking. "We have a case."

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

When the team entered the office, they were surprised to see a man the size of Bigfoot standing in the room. Compared to him, Dean and Spencer seemed to shrink. He wore a suit that must have been tailored to suit a man his size. Though he was tall, he didn't seem to lack in the muscle department. Even hidden behind the jacket of the suit, it was obvious that the man was in serious shape—possibly even surpassing Morgan. His hair was long, but it was combed back enough that it didn't fall into his face.

He smiled sheepishly when he caught sight of the team. Despite the man's enormity, Morgan thought he seemed young and harmless. Prentiss thought the word innocent suited him. Reid just saw the intelligence in his eyes. Dean's smirk told them all that this was what he and JJ had been whispering about.

They all took their seats. The man stood awkwardly next to Hotch and JJ like the new kid introducing himself to the class—which was kind of how it was.

"I'd like to introduce you to a temporary member of the team. He's on loan to us from the Academy. Samuel Winchester, I'd like you to meet Derek Morgan, Jason Gideon, Emily Prentiss, and Dr. Spencer Reid." They shook hands, in turn. "You already know myself and Agent Jareau."

"Winchester?" Gideon asked, curiously. "As in…"

"Yep," Dean answered for him, smirking. "Hey, Sammy."

"Dean." Sam nodded at him, not bothering to correct his name. "We're brothers," he clarified.

"I didn't know you had an older brother," Prentiss said accusingly.

Dean was offended. "I don't."

Sam chuckled at his brother's expression. "I'm four years younger," he explained to the confused agents.

"Yep," Dean said, smiling now. "And now my little bro is all grown up and joining the Bureau. How she treating you, Sammy?"

"Sam," he corrected, rolling his eyes. "And how would I know, Dean? It's my first day out of the Academy."

Dean just shrugged.

Hotch picked up the conversation before it could dissolve further into brotherly banter. "Sam will be accompanying us to Oregon for our next case. JJ?"

"Right."

Sam took a seat in between Hotch and Reid. They all watched the screen as JJ began the intro to the case. "Michael Conner, 42," JJ said, a mug shot appeared on screen of a glaring middle-aged man. He was bald, showing a large swastika tattooed to his head. "Lauren Cera, 17." This time, it was a smiling driver's license photo. The woman was young and blonde, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the team member in front of them. "Dennis McAffoy, 38." A photo of a large African-American man appeared on screen. He wore a business suit and had a small scar above his left eyebrow. "Christina Aguirre, 38." The mug shot of a grinning, plump Latina woman. "Nathanial Pratt, 24. Omar Perry, 32. David Gustav, 73." Three more pictures were added to the screen.

JJ continued. "All seven of them went missing in central Oregon over the last nine months. This," a picture of a Latino teen appeared on screen. The boy's hair waved into his face and a lip ring stuck out from his mouth, "is Pablo Estevez, 19. His girlfriend reported him missing two months ago. His body was found yesterday afternoon. He was tortured and raped repeatedly. The cause of death was a single stab wound to the heart, but the main cause for concern is this." Another picture came on screen. The graphic pictures of the victim's body weren't enough to make them flinch, but the distaste in the air was palpable. The gruesome scene affected them all. "There were several fresh wounds cut into the body using a blade of some sort."

Aside from them, the body was covered with long lines of scars down his back and sides. The body had been laid on its stomach so the team couldn't see the front, but they assumed the scars went all the way around.

"The medical examiner had trouble identifying exactly what caused the marks. The wounds were deep, but they were done post-mortem. The DNA of the seven missing persons was found on his body as well."

"Are we thinking the people who went missing had something to do with Estevez's death?" Prentiss asked. She was the newest member of the team, having only worked three other cases with them.

Reid spoke, looking up from his file. "Judging from the timing of the disappearances, it's more likely that they are all victims of the same Unsub. It's possible that they are being held together in a single location. Since another body hasn't been found, it's probable the others are still alive. According to the ME's report, all the DNA they found came from his clothing?"

JJ nodded. "A rape kit was performed, but no DNA was found inside the body."

"Object raped?" Prentiss asked.

"Can't be," Dean said. "They found bruising around his posterior consistent with sexual intercourse."

Sam spoke up. "Those symbols look like Enochian," he said referring to the marks on the man's body. "The language isn't used in many religious practices and there are very few who can understand it, let alone that know enough to put the words in the proper syntax. The Unsub we're looking for is either an expert in religious studies or he grew up with it."

The team looked at him questioningly.

Sam shrugged. "It's why I'm here," he explained.

"So we're looking at theology professors and religious cults?" Reid asked.

Sam's look turned pensive. "Religious cults, yes. But theology professors are more… rounded. They wouldn't necessarily need to memorize the language to teach their classes—especially when Enochian is often a small blip on the syllabus."

Hotch nodded. "Either way, we need to get a look at that crime scene. We'll continue this discussion on the jet. Wheels up in twenty."

"Jet?" Sam asked, looking at his brother.

"Is it a problem?" Hotch asked.

"Not for me," he said.


	2. Sixty-Six Seals

Sam was pleasantly surprised. The last time he'd been on a plane with Dean, neither of them had fared well. Dean was fourteen at the time and Sam walked away from the encounter with a large wet spot on his shirt where he had had an unfortunate encounter with most of Dean's lunch. Dean had spent the entire plane ride trembling and clenching his stomach in pain until the wheels touched down.

The trip to Oregon didn't even compare. His brother seem relaxed enough as the plane took off, and could barely be described as 'slightly nervous' throughout the rest of the flight. When it came time to discuss the case, Sam was introduced to their peppy technical analyst.

"Sam," Hotch said. "Meet Penelope Garcia."

A sharp catcall came from the computer. "Oh boys," Garcia said to Morgan and Dean. "It looks like you're going to have some competition."

"Nuh-uh, Baby Girl," Morgan said. "You're all mine."

"In your dreams, Morgan," Dean teased. "Ain't that right, Pen?" He winked.

"Settle, settle. There's plenty of me to go around."

Sam took an instant liking to her. Any woman who could put up with Dean's persistent flirting and dole it out in return deserved his respect.

"Penelope," Hotch chided.

"Right, sir. Okay, looks like we have four communes in the immediate areas that could be considered cult-like and eight houses of God that also house practitioners."

"Can you narrow those down specifically to belief systems with single deities?" Sam asked.

"Done," she said. "That leaves two communes, two chapels, a synagogue, and a Buddhist temple."

"We can rule out the temple," Sam said. "Enochian is the language of the angels, and Buddhists don't believe in that type of corporeal afterlife."

"Is there a way to narrow the list down any further?" Penelope asked.

Sam shook his head. "Not until we have more to go on. I _would_ eliminate the places that housed only female residents, but until we know for sure the Unsub is a man, I think it's best we keep them."

Hotch agreed. "Garcia. I want you to pull the records of all registered practitioners and residents of these houses and run full background checks. We're looking for a higher-level education with a background in theology or linguistics."

"If anything comes up, I'll let you know," she said. The window with her face blacked out. Reid closed the screen and continued the conversation. "Over the last few centuries over 800 million people were confirmed slaughtered in the name of religion. Even over the last decade, the numbers are astounding. Most religion based mass-murderers identify with some form of Christianity, but many serial killers also list their primary motivation as religion."

"We can't be sure that it really is a religious killing," Dean said. "For all we know, the killer just carved the symbols into the body to throw us off the trail."

"A forensic countermeasure," Gideon agreed.

"I don't think so, Dean," Sam said, looking again at the photos of the body. "Like I said before, it would take a lot of work to learn how to read and write Enochian and these symbols all hint at someone who really knows their stuff."

"How can you tell?" Prentiss asked.

Sam blushed slightly. "I can read and write Enochian," he said.

"Really?" Reid asked, excitedly. "You studied it?"

Sam shrugged. "I was raised with it."

Nobody missed Dean's wince at that statement. They didn't push the matter further.

"So this isn't a countermeasure to put us on the wrong track," Hotch said. "That means the Unsub is trying to send a message."

"The question is, what message?" Gideon asked.

"You said you can read the writing," Prentiss said to Sam. "What does it say."

He peered closely at the pictures in his hands and translated. "'Ask not how or why, only that it is unclean must you know. Avaddon 14:8.' It's a passage from a bible."

"That isn't from the any version of Christian or Catholic bibles that I've read," Reid said. "Even accounting for a mix-up in translation, nothing in them has a line even close. Plus, there isn't a book of Avaddon. The closest the bible comes to the name is Abaddon, an angel that is portrayed inconsistently as both an angel who assists God in the heavens and one who has fallen and succumbed to evil. In the Lake of Fire, Abaddon is meant to open the bottomless pit and seal Lucifer inside."

"Avaddon and Abaddon are the same person," Dean said. "The name literally translates into Hell. You aren't going to find a Book of Avaddon in any traditional text. The only one I know of is in the Book of Seals."

Sam shivered at the name, but nodded. "The book dates back hundreds of years. It's not as old as the Old Testament, but it comes pretty close. The bible was originally written in Aramaic, but it was translated into many languages—including Greek, Latin, and, more recently, English."

"Seals?" Prentiss asked.

"The seals holding Lucifer in Hell," Sam said. "According to the book, there are over six-hundred possible seals, but only sixty-six of them need to be broken."

"Six-six-six. The Devil's number," Gideon interjected.

Sam nodded. "It's where the legend comes from. The Book of Seals has eleven parts, each named after an angel or demon that was a key contributor in sealing Lucifer in the cage. It's basically a long list of seals in the guise of biblical stories detailing the Great Fall."

"And in the passage the Unsub left behind?" Hotch asked.

"Avaddon, who is residing in heaven at this point, is sent to Earth by God on a mission to cleanse the city of Dvoei. In the city, Avaddon is seen smiting two children who had just stolen a piece of bread. When a nun comes out to confront him, Avaddon gives his explanation: 'Ask not how or why, only that it is unclean must you know.' Then he leaves the city, placing a seal with the nun. He tells her to close it when 'fire rains from the heavens.'"

"How is the seal broken?"

"I'm not sure," Sam said honestly. "Most seals involve very specific types of human sacrifice. Some involve corrupting innocence or capturing people to use in rituals. Just Mother Nature—freak storms and accidents and the like—can break certain seals. I won't be able to get my hands on a copy of the text for a few days at least so I can't tell you exactly what—if any—seal this is supposed to break. I think this passage might reference the seal that has to do with fighting a true warrior of God, but that might happen later on."

This whole conversation was hitting a bit too close to home for Dean. "You want me to call Bobby?" he asked. "He'd probably be more inclined to talk to me than you. If I can get him on the phone, that is."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. It's probably better to have you do it. He threatened to have me turned into a ferret the last time we talked."

Dean shook his head sadly. "Bobby's an expert in theology and the occult," Dean explained to the team. "But he really belongs in a hospital. His head isn't screwed on as well as it should be, but sanitariums can never hold him. He's too resourceful for his own good—just keeps busting out. He's mostly harmless, but he goes off the grid every so often and is out of contact for days at a time. I'll be lucky to get him on the phone, but if I can, he'll be able to help us. He has a couple copies of the book we need at his house in Sioux Falls. Hopefully, he'll be there."

"If not," Sam said. "I can have my copy sent out. It's in Nebraska with the rest of my stuff, but Ellen wouldn't mind shipping it to me if we need it."

"I think we might," Hotch interjected. If it really is a religious cult trying to break these seals, then this body won't be the only one we find."

"What I want to know," Morgan said, "is why the body turned up now. He's been missing for two months, right? Well the Unsub has had seven other people that we know of. Where are their bodies? And if they are still alive, why _this_ kid?"

"And why did they torture him slowly over the course of two months then simply stab him through the heart?" Reid asked.

None of them had an answer.

"It could be that the Unsub though he had information he needed and when he gave it to them, the Unsub killed him," Gideon suggested.

"Unlikely," Prentiss said. "Aside from the torture, there were many defensive wounds on his body. Some were fairly recent. He'd been fighting."

"You think he tried to escape?" Gideon asked.

"The ligature marks found on his wrists and ankles suggest he was tied down," Reid informed them. "It would have been nearly impossible for him to remove them without help. Even in the event that he had escaped, it would have been extraordinarily easy to subdue him. The ME's report states that Estevez was malnourished nearly to the point of emaciation. I doubt he would have been able to cause much trouble physically."

"So," Morgan surmised. "It's more likely our Unsub killed Estevez to break a series of seals?"

"We probably won't know that until Sam is able to get his hands on that book," Prentiss said.


	3. Scars

The jet touched down an hour later. Dean flinched only slightly and Sam marveled at the change in his brother. They'd continued the discussion throughout the flight, but without more information they were left with too many possibilities. Dean wasn't able to get a call through to Bobby so he told Sam to contact Ellen. She said she'd have the book sent overnight to the precinct and wished him luck on his case.

At the precinct, Sam sat back in his chair to look at the board splayed with images of Estevez's body. There were new pictures they'd added from the ME's office. Other than the bible verse, two symbols had been carved repeatedly into the man's chest. Sam's brows flurried, trying to remember what they meant. It had been years since he'd needed to read Enochian, over a decade actually, and he was rusty. He was surprised at how much knowledge of the subject came back to him, but it still wasn't enough to translate the new symbols. He'd seen them before, but he just couldn't place them.

Hotch and Gideon went to the hospital to get a closer look at the body and Hotch sent Prentiss and Dean to speak with the girlfriend. With JJ and Garcia back at Quantico, it was just Reid and Sam at the precinct. Sam closed his eyes and rubbed his hands through his hair, trying to focus his thoughts back on the case. The dead body, the runes, the seals. His childhood was flooding back and it was all Sam could do to stop it. He couldn't imagine how Dean was dealing. He'd protected Sam through the worst of it, never letting him see just how bad their father got when he took Dean on a hunt. But he could imagine it—had a thousand times over while he spent time and time again sewing them back together.

"You should take a break," Reid said, startling him out of his reverie.

He was ashamed to have been caught while his mind was somewhere other than the case. There were seven missing people and a dead body in front of him. There were more important things to think about than his past. "I'm fine," he told his superior, turning his attention back to the board. There was something about those symbols that was on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be remembered. "Just trying to remember what these symbols mean. I know them, but it's been so long since I've had to translate that I'm drawing a blank."

"When have you ever needed to translate Enochian?" Reid asked curiously.

"When I was a kid," he answered.

Reid looked surprised and Sam quickly realized that Dean probably spoke to his team about his past just as much as he'd spoken to Sam about it—which was none at all. "What has Dean told you about our father?" he asked causing Reid's brow to crease in thought.

Now that he thought about it, Reid didn't think he'd ever heard anything about Dean and Sam's father. After hearing the pain in his voice when he recounted his mother dying in a house fire when he was young, Reid hadn't pried with more questions about his family life. They hadn't even known Sam had existed until he showed up that morning. "Nothing," he said. "I mean, I know that your mother died when Dean was a toddler, but other than that, he's not very forthcoming with information about his family life."

Sam nodded. He'd suspected as much. "Our father was in the Marines when he was younger. From what I hear, he was never right in the head to begin with, but when he came back, he was changed. Started seeing demons everywhere. After our mom died, he took Dean and I with him, traveling the country, hunting monsters and ghosts and demons and pretty much anything supernatural."

Reid was dismayed.

Sam just shrugged. "We learned a lot. Dean and I both grew up reading, writing, and speaking Latin. Dean was better at the physical stuff though, the training. Our dad trained us young, but I was a pipsqueak until I hit my growth spurt so most of the time he had me doing research into the occult, looking for information that could help him on a hunt. He had me learn Enochian and Greek and a hundred different ways to kill a werewolf. He had Dean learn weapons and combat tactics and a hundred different defense moves in case the werewolf wouldn't die. Like I said, he was crazy."

"Where is he now?" Reid asked.

Sam shrugged. "Not sure. Dean probably knows. Last time I checked, he was in an institution for the criminally insane in Wyoming, but he was transferred a couple of years ago and I lost track. I'm not going to say we had the best childhood, but Dean and I grew up close and a lot of what we learned has helped us in the long run. I got a full ride to Stanford and admittance into the FBI Training Academy and Dean's in the BAU now so I'd say we're both doing pretty well. If I could just remember what these symbols mean," Sam said pointing at the runes carved deeply into the chest of their victim.

"Is that where Dean got his scars?" he asked.

"You've seen them?" Sam was surprised. Dean was normally careful about keeping them covered. It wasn't that he was self-conscious, more so the fact that seeing them brought an onslaught of questions and Dean didn't like talking about them.

Reid nodded. "Only once. After an Unsub nearly severed an artery during an attack, the EMTs had to remove Dean's shirt and I got a peek at them."

Sam grimaced. "If you have questions to ask about my childhood, I don't mind. I'll answer if I can and if I can't or I don't want to, I'll let you know. But if you want a peak into Dean's head, you'll have to go to him."

Reid nodded. "Of course," he said.

With that, they both turned their attention back to their work. The silence stretched interminably, but it was far from uncomfortable. Both men's minds were whirling, looking for answers to who their Unsub could be.


	4. Jimmy

_5 Years Ago_

Jimmy Novak was lost. His wife was gone, his daughter with her. His career was in shambles. So Jimmy did the only thing he knew he could do. He prayed. He prayed for answers. He prayed for strength. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for guidance. And, one day, he received a message that could have come only from the lord, himself. It appeared in the form of an angel.

James Xavier Novak sat at a bar for the first time in fifteen years. He had fallen off the wagon a time or two, but he'd stayed clear from bars altogether. Now, though, with nothing left to lose, he took a seat and ordered a drink. "Bourbon, four fingers, neat," he said. The bartender poured the whiskey into a glass and set it in front of him.

An hour later, the bartender took his keys. Jimmy didn't mind. He'd already planned on walking home.

He stood up, surprised that he was thoroughly drunk. It used to take a lot more to get him to this point, but he wouldn't complain. He turned right to head back to his empty house and swayed uneasily on the sidewalk. His hand reached out to steady himself on the side of the building, but empty air met his grasping hand as he realized he was standing next to an alleyway and there was nothing to keep him upright. He stumbled then, going down on one knee and catching himself with his hands so he wouldn't injure himself. It had been much longer since he'd been drunk than he realized.

He felt hands on his back rubbing soothing circles into it. He tried to shrug the hands off, but they were persistent.

"Shhh," she said. "It's alright. Let me help you." She put his arm around her shoulders and helped him stand.

"Who are you?" Jimmy asked.

"I am Anna," she replied.

They walked for a while and Jimmy let her lead. He didn't pay any attention to where they were going until he found himself inside a small private hospital, a flurry of activity surrounding him. "This isn't my house," he said, a little unnecessarily.

"No," she agreed. She led him past the desk to a hospital room and laid him on the bed.

"Where am I?" he asked her.

"I will tell you when you wake. For now, sleep."

Now that he wasn't clinging to her like a human cane, he could make out her features. She was young, just older than his daughter should be, and had red hair. She was small, smaller than he had thought she was, seeing as she half-carried him through town. She smiled at his scrutiny. Or maybe he was just making a face. Jimmy nodded and let his head fall back onto the pillow. He didn't take off his shoes or his overcoat. He just fell asleep. For the first time in a long time, he didn't have nightmares.


	5. Preliminary Profile

"Our Unsub is a male between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. He's not impulsive like we see in younger men, though he's fit enough that abducting grown men isn't a challenge for him. So he's big, probably tall—at least six feet."

"And strong. The victims all have different ethnic backgrounds and range in age. The youngest that we know of is seventeen, while the oldest was well into his eighties so, while we aren't able to deduce an ethnicity for this Unsub, he is what we like to call an 'equal-opportunity killer.' If he is picking his victims to specifically suit his purposes, it's likely that body type doesn't concern him, but rather who the people were in their everyday lives."

"This Unsub is smart. The symbols carved into the body of Pablo Estevez are Enochian—not something one is likely to pick up at the local high school. That means either he was raised in a devout religious family that would have included learning the long-dead language, or, more likely, that the Unsub has specifically sought out this language to better suit his ultimate goal."

"Which is?" an officer asked.

"Well, we're not entirely sure yet, but insofar, the Unsub seems to have based his kill on an obscure version of the bible called the _Book of Seals_, which is basically a step-by-step guide on freeing Lucifer from Hell."

"That is why it is highly likely that we are looking for a small group of people rather than a single Unsub. The man we are looking for, however, has immense power over these people."

"That means it is likely he will be attractive and have a strong personality. He's able to convince people to do horrific things, including torturing a young man to fuel his own agenda. This makes him more dangerous than the others in his group. If they feel he is being threatened in any way, they will kill to protect him."

"In many cases with victims being held for a long period of time, they develop a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome where they will go out of their way to protect their captors and abusers in fear of punishment—even going as far as injuring themselves in the process. In 1973, a pair of bank robbers took four hostages captive and held them in a bank vault, submitting them to various forms of psychological abuse, including rigging them with explosives and snare traps. After they were saved, two of the hostages publicly protested their rescue and later set up a defense fund to support their captors."

"However, just because they have been indoctrinated to follow our Unsub does not mean that they are not responsible for their actions. It is likely that those under our Unsub's immediate power will be the least in control, but other factions of the group dynamic may exhibit the same levels of sadism as their leader."


	6. Anna

_5 Years Ago_

When Jimmy woke, his head hurt and his stomach turned. He rolled and retched over the side of the bed, but nothing came up. It was probably because he hadn't eaten the day before. When he felt that he would be able to move without gagging, he stood up and walked into the dimly lit hall of the small hospital. There was no one around as he wandered and, for a moment, Jimmy panicked at the thought that he might be the only one around. When he heard the hushed voices from a room to his left, he was relieved and a bit pensive. Why had the woman—what was her name again—brought him here? Anna. Her name was Anna. He wouldn't forget it again, he promised himself. There was no answer for the second question, though. He wasn't sure why he was here in the first place, and why he didn't just up and leave was beyond him.

A big part of him wanted to go, run, escape as fast as he could so he didn't have to look his shame in the face and apologize to Anna for the state she had found him in. The smaller part of him—the one that knew it was right—wanted him to find Anna immediately and thank her for her trouble. He couldn't remember much about her, but he though she would be the kind of person to shrug off his thanks as if she hadn't done anything. She was just good like that.

Two nurses walked down the hallway he was in. The one on the left let out a small sound of surprise, but the other just looked at him disapprovingly. "What are you doing out of your room?" she asked.

Jimmy quirked his eyebrow at her tone. He was a grown man. If he wanted to leave, he could leave. "I am looking for Anna," he said instead.

The surprised nurse smiled and nodded. "Anna's on her lunch break. If you want, we can take you to the break room. She usually eats in there."

Jimmy hadn't realized he had slept so late. "If you wouldn't mind, that would be most convenient."

The disapproving nurse looked put out with her younger counterpart, but Jimmy ignored her as they navigated the small twists and turns of the hallways.

"I'm Samandriel," the nurse said as she led the way. Pointing at the nurse Jimmy was trying to ignore, she said. "This is Naomi. We're Angels here at Hope and Faith."

"Angels?" he asked.

"That's what they call us, because of the wings." She indicated to her back where small silver wings were stitched into her uniform.

"And Anna? She's an… Angel?" The name sat funny on his tongue.

"Yep." The nurse nodded. "She's been one longer than me, but not by much. Do you know why she brought you here?"

Jimmy shook his head. "That's what I'm here to find out," he told her. "Well, that and to thank her."

Samandriel just smiled at him.

They arrived at the break room a few seconds later. Anna sat with her back to the door and Jimmy could see that her wings, unlike Samandriel's, were golden. He wondered what the different colors meant, or if they even meant anything at all. The two nurses left and Jimmy just stood there, unsure of what to say.

"Um. Hello," he said nervously.

Anna turned around and smiled at him. "Hi," she said.

Jimmy couldn't think of anything else to say. Well, that wasn't true. He had a lot he wanted to say, but he didn't know how to say it.

"Would you like to have a seat?" she asked signaling to the chair across from her.

"Yes, thank you." Jimmy fixed his tie nervously and sat down. "I'd just like to say thank you," he said sincerely. His crystal blue eyes bore into hers. "You didn't need to stop and help me, especially while I was… Anyway, thank you." He stood up to leave, but held out a business card. "If there's anything I can do to repay you, just let me know."

Anna stared at the card. "There is something you can do for me," she said.

Jimmy nodded and sat back down. "What is it you'd like me to do?"

"Tell me," she said. Her eyes stayed locked onto his and it was as if he couldn't look away. "Why were you there at that bar?"

"I'd think it was obvious. I was there to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol." He chuckled lightly.

She didn't smirk or smile like he expected her to. Instead, she waited.

Jimmy broke before she did. "My wife, Amy," he said. "And my daughter, Claire." His voice wavered a bit, but he held it. He would not break down in front of this woman. "We got into an argument. I don't even remember what it was about, but Claire overheard us and ran away. Amy and I went to look for her. We were still angry, even after." He took a deep breath and continued. "Amy found her a few blocks away. Apparently arguing with your teenage daughter on the street with your car still running behind you makes you a target for a carjacking. I don't really know how it happened and I don't want to know. They died a year ago."

Anna had listened intently, concern etched onto her face. Sometime during the middle of his explanation, she'd reached out and captured his hand. He liked it. It was warm. "Grief can sometimes make us do things that go against our nature," she said. "But it is important to remember who we are and who our loved ones wanted us to be."

Though they weren't comforting words, Jimmy found truth in them. It shamed him to know just how far he'd strayed from the man he was and the man he wanted to be.

"I have seen you in church," she said. "But do you believe in a higher power?" She asked the question curiously without any expectations or fear of his answer. She honestly wanted to know.

"Yes," Jimmy said, certain despite everything He'd taken. "But whether He is listening or not, I don't know."

Anna smiled dimly. "He is always listening. Whether or not he answers is up to us. God gave us free will and with that, he expects us to make our own choices. Even in grief and loss and suffering," she added.

"Why did you help me then?" he asked, slightly angry.

"Because God gave me free will as well and I believe that sometimes people need someone to help them in the worst of times. Sometimes that means kindness, sometimes it means something different."

"Different?" he asked.

She just smiled at him. "I could use a little help around the hospital today," she said instead of answering his question. "If you would like, you could help."

Jimmy looked down at himself and saw the soiled trench coat and wrinkled suit. His tie was askew and he knew that it wouldn't lie straight unless he retied it. The only clean parts of him were his shoes. Somehow, they had stayed clean through the previous night. "I would like to help." As he said the words, he found them to be true. "But I must go home to change first. I am certain I am not sanitary enough to interact with any patients."

"I can get you a clean set of scrubs and you can use a shower in one of our unoccupied rooms if you'd like. I will have your clothes cleaned for you and you can have them back by the end of the day if you still want them."

It sounded a little ominous, but Jimmy thought she meant well. He agreed.

The shower was warm, perfect on his chilled skin. The hospital was cold and he could feel it set in his bones, but the water washed that feeling away. The scrubs were surprisingly comfortable. They fit snugly, but he moved well in them and, unlike his suit and coat, they were light. Anna had brought him a pair of shoes as well and, after a second's deliberation, he put them on. His black dress shoes would look out of place in the hospital and would draw more attention than he would want.

He didn't bother to do much more than that with his appearance. His hair never seemed to want to cooperate with him in any case so Jimmy just gave up on it. He did, however, get a peek at the wings on his back. Unlike Anna's golden wings or Samandriel's silver ones, Jimmy's were black. His first thought was that they looked evil, the wings he would have imagined Lucifer having. But then he saw the precision and attention to detail. Each feather was outlined and emphasized to look like wings taking flight. The black was more of a deep onyx and just as smooth. He could feel the risen thread as he ran his fingertips over them, but even though they were rough compared to the fabric of his top, they were still soft like he imagined real wings would be. He liked them, probably much more than he should.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Are you decent?" Anna asked.

"Yes."

"Good." When she opened the door, there was a smile on her face. He hadn't seen her give a real smile since he'd met her. Sure there had been small, demure smiles and possibly even a smirk or two, but this was a _real_ smile, one of true happiness. Jimmy wanted to keep that smile on her face. He wanted to see more of it.


	7. No New Leads

The team had nothing. No new leads. No new suspects. No new bodies.

After finding Estevez, Hotch assumed that they would start finding more of their missing persons dead with runes carved into their bodies. So far, though, there had been no sign of their Unsubs.

Garcia finished her background checks on the practitioners and, other than a few parking tickets and a drunk and disorderly charge from a decade ago, none of them had exhibited the kind of behavior they were looking for. Dean, Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid spent the better part of the following two days interviewing the congregation leaders, none of which turned out to be the least bit suspicious.

By the second night, he was sure something in their profile was wrong. If the Unsub wasn't going to litter the streets with more bodies, he didn't know what he was after. Having nothing to go on, Hotch sent the team back to the hotel for a good night's sleep. He hoped that Sam's book would prove fruitful because if they couldn't find a way to narrow down the suspect list—which was rather extensive, even by their standards—their Unsub would continue to elude them.

Hotch was certain that the Unsub wouldn't give up completely. The body was marked and placed for a reason. They just didn't know what that reason was. What he did know was that it if they couldn't figure out what the Unsub wanted soon, something big was sure to follow. It was only a matter of time. As much as he hated the idea, he had to admit to himself that another body would certainly help. It would cost another man his life and would strengthen the hold the Unsub had on his followers, but it would give them a few good leads to go on. He hated that all they could do was wait.

Hotch walked down the hallway of yet another hotel. He sighed as he realized he could describe the layout of this place better than he could his own house. He wasn't home nearly often enough and he wouldn't be able to go home until the case was over. It was still early—just after seven—so he would be awake a while longer to pour over case files and sort through the information. He knew the others would be doing the same thing that night. They all wanted to get home, but more than that, they wanted the Unsub caught and the victims returned to their families—even if only their bodies.

"Hey, Hotch!" Dean called before Hotch could enter his room.

Hotch turned to him, quirking an eyebrow in question.

"We're all going out for a bite to eat at the diner down the road. You wanna come with us?"

Hotch shook his head. "I'll have dinner in my room," he said.

It was Dean's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "Come on, Hotch. You could use a bite to eat and I know all you're gonna be doing tonight is looking over those case files. You need a break. We all do."

Hotch gave in. Dean was right. And maybe a small break to step back would allow him to make a few connections in the case.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

The diner was packed so the team had to wait twenty minutes before they were seated and another ten before the waitress came to take their orders. The team was ready and waiting for her when she arrived and they told her what they wanted. They all amused themselves with Dean's shameless flirting. Morgan preferred the club scene and his frequent encounters with Garcia. But like Prentiss had said, Dean would flirt with anyone wearing a skirt. Though it was a bit long for his tastes, the waitress was, in fact, wearing a skirt.

Thanks to his interest, the waitress was much quicker with their food. Dean and Morgan bit eagerly into their burgers causing a not-really-all-too-suppressed giggle from Prentiss. Reid and Hotch were amused as well, while Sam just turned his nose up in disgust. His brother could be such a pig sometimes.

"Don't give me that look, Sammy," Dean said.

"Sam," he corrected automatically.

"I'm not the one eating the rabbit food. Seriously, man, even the one woman at the table has a manlier meal than you."

Sam looked at Prentiss's sandwich/soup combo then back at his Caesar salad.

"Hey!" she objected.

"Oh don't mind him, Prentiss," Morgan said. "He's just mad that he had to play beat cop again and stake out our Rabbi."

"Nothing wrong with being a beat cop," Dean said, "but if I'm stuck on babysitting duty again tomorrow, I will literally die from boredom."

Hotch spoke up then. "The authorities weren't very happy with their supervisor imposing us on their case so they haven't been too forthcoming about allowing us to use their resources."

"Until then," Gideon surmised. "We have to do our own beat work." He smirked.

A cell phone rang from the table and they all reached to their hips to check if it was theirs.

"Winchester," Dean answered. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Sam. "It's Bobby."

Hotch motioned for the check, knowing that whatever this man said, they would need to continue their work at the station.

"Uh-huh… yeah, Bobby… we didn't have any trouble… look, we need… no…" He stood up and turned back to the team. "I'm gonna go grab the car," he said. With the crowd, they'd had to park across the street. He tossed a twenty on the table to pitch in for dinner and sauntered to the exit without even a glance at the disappointed waitress.

Sometimes, Sam thought, his brother could be a real dick.

The waitress returned a minute later with their check and everyone pitched in their share to cover the bill and the tip. Not having much time to have eaten anything, they all packaged up their food to take to the precinct. With as much as Bobby knew about the occult, Sam told the team that it was best to go there instead of the hotel. That way, if they discovered anything vital, they could act immediately. Hotch agreed.

The team stood from the table and walked outside where Dean should have been waiting with the SUV. He was nowhere in sight.

"You think he lost the car?" Prentiss asked.

Sam shook his head. "He'd never forget an escape route," Sam said absentmindedly as peered over the car tops for his brother. "Something's wrong." Without warning, he took off running in the direction they'd left the car. His long legs propelled him forward quickly and the team hastened to keep up with the man.

Dean's cell phone was the first thing he noticed. It was open, lying on the pavement just a few feet from the SUV. The second thing Sam noticed was the grunting sound of a silent scuffle and a "Get the hell off of me!" from his brother.

The others heard it too.

Their hands all went immediately to their holsters, drawing their weapons, before proceeding toward the alley where they'd all heard the shout. Food forgotten on the roof of the car, Hotch led the team around the corner where they saw an unconscious Dean being dragged off toward a nearby van by four masked men. One limped horribly and another cradled his left shoulder, but none had been incapacitated and they were all armed.

"Freeze! FBI!" Hotch yelled.

Two of the men turned their weapons toward the armed FBI agents and the other two held their guns to Dean's head. Each man still had a good grip on the eldest Winchester and none of them stopped moving.

"You fire," a calm voice spoke. "We fire."

Then they were at the van and Dean was unceremoniously dragged inside with one of his abductors, a weapon still aimed at his skull. The other three men piled into the vehicle and drove off.

They rushed back to the SUV, ready to give chase while Hotch called it in.

"Dammit!" Morgan exclaimed, kicking the side of the vehicle.

"What is it?" Reid asked.

Nobody answered him. They didn't need to. Even Reid had seen it just a split second after the words left his lips. All four tires were slashed.

There was a fifth Unsub and he'd been watching them.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

The team was not taking Dean's disappearance well. All night, Morgan was anxious. When Garcia called, telling him that she got a hit on the van and it had been reported stolen three days ago, he hung up without even so much as a "thanks, Baby Girl." Reid paced the room, combing through his thoughts trying to find the missing piece of their puzzle. They all knew this was one of those cases where something would just fall into place and everything would make sense. He just had to find it. Gideon felt useless. He didn't have much insight to offer dealing with Christian religions, unlike Prentiss who'd been raised Catholic. Neither of them, however, felt that their knowledge lent any use to the case. Dean was missing and they didn't have anything that could help save him. They hoped Sam was having better luck with the book.

The book came in that morning and Sam had spent his time reading the book of Avaddon in depth. Normally, it would have been Reid's job, but since the book was in Latin—a language he was familiar with, but didn't know enough of to help—Sam was left to the research aspect. He didn't mind that part. What he did mind was not making a difference. Even when he'd been forced to look up pointless information on an obscure legend in Southeast Asia for one his father's imagined hunts, he was able to find a pivotal source of information that could 'turn the tides' so to speak. Now though, with Dean missing and no leads, it all came down to him and what he knew. He didn't think it would be enough.

Sam closed the book with a loud thud and stood, stretching out his long limbs until he could hear the satisfying pops. He walked back to the whiteboards, looking at the symbols again. It was the symbol on the victim's chest that got him. He knew what it was; he just needed to remember. Frustration poured through him, making him want to reach out and punch whatever was closest to him. Instead he forced his eyes closed and took deep breaths. His head swam a little from the extra oxygen in his blood stream, but the dizziness kept his mind off of his rage so he didn't stop until he could open his eyes without seeing red.

When he opened them again to look at the board again, Reid was there watching him.

"Are you alright?" he asked Sam.

"No," he answered, honestly. His voice was hard and, though it was obvious he didn't want to talk, he also didn't want to keep standing here staring at the symbol that was causing him to fume.

"You said before that you knew the symbol."

Sam nodded.

"Where? You said your dad had you learn Enochian to help with cases. Is it possible you could get your hands on those books?"

"No," Sam told him. "The books are at Bobby's. My father gave them to him when he realized the FBI was closing in. Since Dean was taken, Bobby hasn't been answering any of my calls."

"Is there any way to retrieve another copy from somewhere? We can have Garcia…"

Sam was already shaking his head, no. "The books we'd need are extremely rare. I saw one at an underground auction once. It sold for over thirty thousand dollars. Even if we could get close enough to one of those books, I doubt we would find what we needed in time. These guys know how to keep themselves under the radar. They held Estevez for just over two months and the only reason we found the body was because they wanted him to be found."

"So books are out of the question," Reid said. "How about people? I know you can't get ahold of Bobby, but is there someone else you know who can help us with these symbols?"

Sam closed his eyes and took another deep breath to steady himself. Even so, his voice cracked when he spoke. "Yeah," he said. "I know someone. How fast can you get Garcia on the phone?"


	8. Full-Fledged Angel

_4 Years Ago_

It had been a year since Jimmy had joined the Hope and Faith team. He started out as an orderly, caring for the patients who needed the time and attention that he could provide with a smile. It was mostly busywork he knew, but he was _happy_. Anna came by often to check on him and they even sometimes had lunch together. Jimmy and Anna were good friends, but neither of them wanted anything more than the platonic relationship they already had. Once they'd agreed on it, the remaining awkwardness melted away leaving behind a powerful relationship he'd come to rely upon.

There were still days when he wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows away, but those days were becoming fewer and farther between thanks to Anna. She listened and gave advice that, though sometimes it seemed useless, did help him recover, albeit slowly. It would still be a long while, but he knew there was something out there to live for and that he could spend his time helping people while he figured out what that something was.

Jimmy sat in one of the guest chairs beside the bed of one Catherine Grey, a literature professor whose eyes were so bad that she couldn't even be awarded the comfort of her books while she died. She was alone and it broke Jimmy's heart. He'd taken to eating lunch with her recently and reading a few pages of one of her novels to her during his breaks. Anna told him once that sometimes helping people required them to be kind and Jimmy started taking that statement to heart. The least he could do with his life was help people who needed helping and if that meant reading a novel that he barely understood to a woman who would be moved to hospice in the next day or so, then he would do it.

He picked up Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_ and read from where he left off.

"The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz's life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time…"

Jimmy read for a while, glancing up to make sure Ms. Grey was still awake. Sometimes during his visits, she would fall asleep to the sound of his voice and he would mark the page and finish his lunch in the silence of her peaceful breathing. Now, though, a small smile played on her lips and he knew it was because of the book in his hands. Something Conrad had written was sparking something in her, bringing back memories of some type. Every once in a while, Jimmy could get her to tell him about them, but more often than not, her memories remained her little secrets and all he could squeeze from her were those little smiles. They were enough to keep him reading.

A few minutes later, Jimmy stopped and gathered his lunch mess, telling her that he would be back later that night after his shift to finish up the section. He was only seconds from leaving the room completely when Anna came in smiling that large, joyful smile he'd only seen a few times since he'd been there.

"James," she said. She never called him by his nickname. "Come with me," she held out her hand.

Jimmy had gotten used to how properly she spoke and, though it was a little weird, it was one hundred percent Anna speaking through those lips. Her voice and her words both suited her somehow. It was pure _Anna_.

"Michael wishes to speak with you. I believe he wants to take you on full-time. He asked that I retrieve you right away." She took the leftovers he'd packed into the small paper sack. "I will dispose of this. You must go."

With that, she turned on her heels to throw his trash away and continue on with whatever her work entailed.

Jimmy was shocked. He'd thought it would take much longer before he was even considered for a position like this. He was suddenly nervous with the thought that Anna was wrong, that Michael had come to the realization that Jimmy wasn't cut out for Hope and Faith after all and that he needed to be let go. It was entirely plausible. Sometimes even he had doubts as to what he was doing there.

It was a faintly whispered, "good luck, Mr. Novak. You can tell me everything tonight," that pulled him from his doubts.

Jimmy smiled at the woman in the bed even though he knew she couldn't see it. "I will, Ms. Grey."

He imagined the long hallway as a walk down the last mile. If Michael wanted him to leave Hope and Faith, Jimmy wasn't sure what he would do. There was no way he could go back to his old life and he didn't want to. The thought that Anna would know what to do if it came to that appeased him slightly.

He arrived at Michael's office and stood in the doorway. Michael had an open door policy and he'd been told repeatedly that if there was ever anything he needed, he could just come on in. Jimmy hadn't ever used it. Even now, he tapped lightly on the door from the hallway to get Michael's attention before entering. "You needed to speak with me?"

"Come on in," Michael said with a smile. "Have a seat."

Jimmy sat down in one of the chairs across from Michael's desk.

"It's been a year now since you've become a part of the family we have here at Hope and Faith."

Jimmy smiled and nodded.

"Well, I've gotten excellent reviews from the staff and patients regarding your work habits. Ms. Grey has been particularly enlightening. I know about the circumstances that brought you to us and it seems like you are on a true path to enlightenment. Can you tell me why you decided to make such a change?" Michael asked.

Jimmy looked at his hands as he spoke. "Mostly, it was Anna," he admitted. "She found me when I was at my worst and she gave me a reason to hope again. There's no reason for me to waste my life bringing evil into the world when I can do good. The first conversation I had with her, she told me that sometimes helping people means offering them kindness and that sometimes it doesn't. I've tried to live by that rule. It's hard sometimes remembering the difference between helping people and offering kindness, but I'm getting better. Working here has helped me start healing. It's more than just a job to me." He looked up at Michael then, a slight challenge in his gaze. "It's my way of giving to others what someone once gave me."

Michael just nodded his head and turned back to the file on his desk. He signed a piece of paper and handed it over to Jimmy. It was a contract. "We would like you to become a full-fledged angel, Mr. Novak. You will receive a pay increase, healthcare benefits, and you will help extend the word of God through this hospital and the church." He paused to allow Jimmy to think. "Don't feel pressured to take the position. I would rather have you continue as you have been than to accept with apprehension."

Jimmy thought about it. This was what he'd been working towards. He just hadn't realized it until now. This was his chance. He could do so much good here and he would be embraced as family. He knew how the other Angels acted. They looked out for each other and depended on each other. They were a family even if it wasn't in blood. It was everything he wanted and it was just a little bit frightening to think that all it would take is a quick signature to receive it.

"Do you have a pen?" he asked Michael.

Michael pulled one out of his pocket and Jimmy used it to sign his name.


	9. John Winchester

The flight to Montana took less than an hour. Prentiss accompanied Sam, leaving the rest of the team behind to continue in their search for Dean. The Tutwiler Psychiatric Institute for the Criminally Insane was much larger than Sam had anticipated. Or maybe it was just the thought that the father he hadn't seen in ten years was inside that made everything around him seem so big. He was used to looking down on things, not the other way around, but somehow just knowing that his father was inside that building—the man he had never, even when he was half a head taller than him, been able to look down on—made everything intimidating.

Sam knew that he shouldn't be worried. If it came down to a fight, Sam could take his father easily. Of the three of them, Dean was the best fighter. Their father didn't even come close. And since Dean had been the one to teach Sam, he'd surpassed anything his old man could have even hoped to teach him by the time he'd been thirteen. He was a scrawny kid, true, but he wasn't helpless even then. Now, if anything, he was faster, stronger than he had been. He'd kept up with his training, working hard to be where he was now.

But Dean had done the same, he told himself, and look where he ended up.

The only thing standing between Sam and the men who took Dean was their father—the man who had traveled the United States of America, toting along his two sons, and killed two-dozen people. He was sick, Sam knew. John couldn't help that everywhere he turned, he'd seen monsters, he'd seen the demon that killed his wife and he'd seen creatures that wanted nothing more than to harm his sons. Sam knew all of this, but knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Sam had been there when Dean came back from a case so riddled with holes that it had taken all night to stitch him back up. He'd been the one to wash the blood off of John's clothes and pick up the empty liquor bottles after a bad night. He hadn't been on the front lines like Dean, but he'd seen first hand what the front lines could do to a man.

So, no, knowing that his father wasn't really a monster wasn't the same thing at all, because even though he knew that monsters didn't exist, he still believed in them. John Winchester was the monster Sam carried with him wherever he went. Every time he'd tackled a suspect, every time he discharged his weapon, every time he pulled an all-nighter, every time he visited a hospital, every time he was given an order, every time he closed his eyes, the monster appeared in the form of John Winchester. And Sam would never escape.

He knew it was worse for his brother, even though he tried not to show it.

They'd shared an apartment up until Dean left for Quantico and Sam knew that he had nightmares. Dean would wake up shivering in a cold sweat, startled to discover that he wasn't wherever he'd been in his dream, but actually in a confortable bed in an apartment he'd paid for legitimately that had electricity and running water and he didn't have to worry about being quiet so he didn't wake his father sleeping in the other bed who also had nightmares and who would just as soon stick a loaded gun in your face if he woke up to a creaking floorboard as hug you goodnight.

And now, here Sam was, speaking to the man that had made his and Dean's lives a living hell for ten years before Dean made sure he couldn't hurt anyone again.

Prentiss didn't miss the fact that Sam's footsteps slowed nearly to the point of stopping as they came closer the facility, nor that the pallor of his skin resembled the color of her linens at home. She didn't know much about Dean's childhood, but she could see that he didn't have very many good memories of it. He was so open with his thoughts and opinions at work, a true extrovert, that she didn't realize just how secretive he was. She hadn't even suspected he had any living family, let alone a younger brother in the FBI and a father who was criminally insane.

Both agents stepped through the front door, exchanged a few words with the warden about the patient they'd spoken about over the phone, checked in their badges, weapons, and any contraband items, were checked, double-checked, and rechecked by security, before they were led to a visiting room containing one John Winchester.

"Sammy?" John asked incredulously when he caught sight of the son he hadn't seen in ten years. He was instantly suspicious and, if the way his hands trembled slightly, terrified. "_Christo_," he said, invoking the name of Christ to flesh out the devil.

"It's really me, dad," Sam said, holding the urge to sigh.

John was relieved. There were other things out there that could impersonate his son, but they wouldn't have known him enough to get the details right. Even though it had been ten years, John could still see things that were distinctly _Sammy_—like the small scar on his chin that he'd gotten when he was sick with the chicken pocks, or the cowlick he had on the back of his head that he always tried to comb over. Nothing could impersonate his sons well enough to fool him, but possession was different altogether and since Sam hadn't reacted when he spoke, he was convinced of the man in front of him. The woman, however, couldn't be trusted.

"Who is this, Sammy? Why are you here? Where's Dean?" He was worried. Dean was busy, he knew, but he was the one who still visited, not Sam. Something must have happened and this woman, whoever she was, was involved somehow.

"That's why I'm here, dad," Sam said slowly. "Dean's in some trouble and we need your help."

"What kind of trouble?" John asked, instantly alert. He was hanging vehemently on to every word Sam said.

"We were on a case in Oregon and Dean was kidnapped."

"What was it?" His expression was serious, but there was an undercurrent to it that Prentiss couldn't quite make out. Anger she thought, or maybe just worry.

"Not what, dad. Who."

"Humans?" John was shocked. "You sure."

Sam nodded. "We're looking for members of the Cult of Seals," he said. "We followed a body to Oregon and it was marked in Enochian runes. I need you to tell me what this means." He pulled a piece of paper with the sketched rune out of his pocket and slid it across to John.

John barely glanced at the paper before looking reprovingly at Sam. "You telling me you can't read this?"

Sam just shook his head.

"What the hell, Sam?!" He was angry. "All that time I spent training you and you're telling me that you weren't even able to warn Dean?! Goddammit!" The guard moved to restrain him, but he settled down before it became necessary. "Didn't you ever think I taught you those things for a reason?"

Sam didn't say anything. He just stared at his father trying hard not to scream at the man.

"Mr. Winchester," Prentiss began, speaking for the first time. "Sam was able to translate the other symbols on the body. This is the only one we have left and we feel as if it's the key to getting your son back."

"What was the message?" John asked. Prentiss looked hesitant, but John didn't give in. "If you want me to tell you what this says, I will. But first you tell me what else was written on the body."

"Avaddon 14:8," Sam answered.

John's face was crestfallen. Tears welled in his eyes and, though he held them back, Prentiss didn't think she'd ever seen a more dejected man.

"What is it, dad?" Sam asked, his own voice cracking.

"Righteous," John said, so low the two agents had to strain to hear him.

"What was that?" Prentiss asked.

John didn't answer her. He just stared at the symbol drawn on the paper in front of him.

"He said 'righteous,'" Sam repeated. Something about the word had saddened both Winchesters. "They think Dean is the Righteous Man."

Prentiss nodded slowly. "He is. I don't think I've seen another person who has such a strict sense of morality, women aside—well, maybe Hotch."

Sam shook his head. "Not _a_ righteous man. _The_ Righteous Man."

"I have to come with you," John said desperately. "I can help you find him, I swear I can." At Sam's disheartened look, John just said, "please, Sammy."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "We have to leave." He and Prentiss stood. "I –I'll come visit when we find Dean."

John didn't fight. He just nodded and watched them go with sad and lonely eyes. Sam thought that that was probably worse than his earlier anger. He'd never known his father to give up before.

"Righteous Man?" Prentiss prodded as they were led back through security toward the exit.

"In the Book of Seals," Sam explained. "There is a story of the first seal. Now, there are hundreds of seals and only sixty-six of them have to be broken to free Lucifer. They don't have to be broken in any kind of order except two: The seal of the Righteous Man and the seal of the First Demon. Once the seals break, they're gone forever, and they don't count toward the sixty-six until the first seal is broken. The book states that the first seal will be broken when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell. 'When he breaks, so shall it break.'"

"I don't understand," Prentiss said. "They're going to kill him?"

Sam shook his head. "They won't kill him, but he's going to wish he was dead."

They arrived at the front desk then and were both busied with a flurry of paperwork to get their stuff back. Once they were outside and on the way to the car, Sam continued. "It isn't Dean's blood they need. They need Dean to spill someone else's blood and it can't be an accident. 'For righteousness is in Spirit only as is in Man and, in corruption, assumes the Spirit and casts light into dark.' They want Dean to kill someone and he has to choose to do it."

"Estevez," Prentiss said, realizing.

Sam nodded. "They thought he was the Righteous Man, but he must have done or said something to make them change their mind so they killed him. I think they wanted us out here. A crack team of FBI profilers who travel the country catching serial killers? There's a whole team of righteous men to pick from. They were just waiting for the right opportunity and it came in the form of Dean Winchester. Dean can take a lot, but from what I've seen of Estevez, I don't think anyone can take that kind of pain without giving in. Even my brother."

They were both quiet as they drove to the airport. Prentiss called Hotch and let them know what they'd figured out with John's help. Sam stared out the window for the entire flight. They had what they needed now to complete an accurate profile, but it wouldn't help one bit. It had been a trap, right from the start. The Unsubs needed a Righteous Man to fit their agenda and, now that they had one, they were going back underground. With so many possible seals, there was no telling where they were going to be before they were there. The trail would run cold and they would be forced to return to Quantico. Dean would be gone, locked away somewhere until he was turned into a killer, until he wasn't _Dean_ anymore.

Sam couldn't help the few tears that trailed down his cheeks. Prentiss pretended not to notice.


	10. Captive

The first thing Dean noticed when he woke was that he couldn't move. His ankles were shackled to the bed with cloth-clad cuffs and his arms were forcibly wrapped around his body, a straightjacket keeping him from moving them. He tried sitting up, but two leather straps kept his torso down. The only part of him body that he _was_ able to move was his head, but even then, the gag he in his mouth kept him from screaming and bit into the sides of his mouth causing them to bleed.

He strained against the restraints trying to give himself just enough wiggle room to slip the straightjacket. It was the first thing his father had taught him—how to escape. He could slip cuffs and straightjackets, pick locks and break down doors, hotwire cars and slip a tail. Joining the FBI had just reinforced his skills over the years. Owning a pair of upper class handcuffs had given him the time he needed to learn to slip them properly. He and Morgan were the ones breaking down doors most of the time. Sure, he hadn't had the need to hotwire a car in years, but that didn't mean he was rusty. One drunken night, he's had Ash hook him up with a sort of "all-purpose" key for the new electric cars. Anything with a real engine he could hotwire in his sleep.

He knew he could slip the cuffs. He could also slip the jacket. But both at the same time while he was being forced against the bed with leather belts? Dean knew it was hopeless, but he didn't know the meaning of giving up. He pushed against the restraints until the sweat pouring from his brow stung his eyes and he screamed until he didn't have a voice left. Hours passed like this, but no one came. Dean's body went slack from sheer exhaustion and he closed his eyes.

The room around him was so dark that there wasn't a difference between keeping his eyes open and closing them. It was cold, he knew, but he was on fire with the ache of trying to break free of his holds. He didn't know if he slept or not, but even if he did, he could feel every minute of time that passed.

The loud creaking of a door made him flinch from the noise. His voice had long since gone and other than the quiet sounds of panting from his useless struggle, he hadn't heard anything else since waking in the room.

Dim light poured from the doorway and was immediately cut off as a man entered and closed the door behind him. Dean could hear him shuffle around the room and mumble a happy "ah" before the room erupted in the brightest light Dean had ever seen. Logically, he knew that the bulb above him wasn't even as bright as the dimmest bulb in his house, but after being in the dark for so long and becoming even comfortable with the deep blackness surrounding him, the light made tears well in his eyes and Dean didn't think that anything else could have given him a quicker migraine. He shut his eyes quickly, but the light burned even through his lids.

"Supervisory Special Agent Dean Winchester," the unknown man said.

Dean was dimly aware of the fact that he should open his eyes and start on a profile, but every time he tried, his eyes involuntarily flinched shut.

"Such a _righteous_ man," he scoffed the word.

Dean could hear the clank of metal and he was able to keep his eyes open enough to see a metal tray to his right where queasily sharp medical tools sat looking more threatening than the man next to them. His eyes slammed shut again, still trying to get used to the abrupt brightness.

"You know," he said wonderingly. "I don't think I've ever been in a situation so _satisfying_. I can get a fed and my freedom in one fell swoop. It's a bit ironic, isn't it? That a member of the FBI is going to be the one to set me free. All I need to do is break you."

Dean opened his eyes again just in time to catch the man's devious smile. He was dealing with a psychopath, Dean knew, a true sadist in every sense of the word. He couldn't muster enough energy to make a real protest. Silently, he cursed himself for being so hasty. He should have conserved his energy once he realized that struggling was useless. Now, he wasn't even sure he'd be able to walk out of the room if given the opportunity.

The man stepped forward and removed the makeshift gag from Dean's mouth. Dean coughed, but when he tried to scream, nothing came out. He'd wasted more than his energy.

"I don't want you dying of asphyxiation before I'm done with you," he explained.

Dean just glared at the man.

"You're a fighter, aren't you?" The man chuckled darkly. "You're going to be fun." He reached onto the tray and picked up a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

Dean felt a pinch in his shoulder and his head swam. His limbs felt disjointed and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. He felt the pressure of the belts lift and he vaguely realized that he should be trying to escape, but by the time he found the proper muscles to use, the straightjacket was gone and his wrists, like his ankles, were shackled to the bed.

The man picked up a small scalpel from the tray. "Alistair," he said.

Dean's confusion must have shown through his terror.

"My name is Alistair. I want you to know the name of the man who breaks you." His smile was vicious. "Don't look so worried. This shouldn't take long."

The next hours were filled with the sounds of joyful laughter and silent screams of agony. If Dean had ever felt pain before in his life, they were the feather light touches of someone who had never come in contact with Alistair. Even through the pain, Dean made a promise to himself.

He. Would. Not. Break.


	11. Year One

_Year One_

Hotch stood in his home office and poured himself two fingers of scotch. He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. He hung his suit coat on the back of his chair before sitting down at his desk.

Dean's case files sat open on his desktop and, though he pretty much had them memorized, he read and reread them, hoping to find some connection he'd missed. There wasn't one. There was no doubt from the markings on the body that their Unsub was a member of the Cult of Seals. Whether he was attempting to break the seals or not still remained to be seen and, without finding Dean, they wouldn't know for sure.

There were at least two Unsubs. The post and antemortem wounds found on Estevez's body were clearly the work of two different people. Judging by their efficiency, the four men who'd taken Dean were probably hired specifically for the job, though they could be affiliated with the cult as well. From what Sam had told him, there were hundreds—possibly as many as a thousand—members scattered all over the United States. It was a very wide canvas for them to search.

It was the anniversary of Dean's disappearance. After the first three days, Hotch had steeled himself to the thought that Dean could have been anywhere in the US. After a week, he could have been anywhere in the world. After six months, Hotch couldn't help but think the man was dead. He knew that the chances of Dean surviving past even the first week was unlikely. He would have survived longer than the set twenty-four hours if only because they wanted something from him. If Sam was right and the Unsubs wanted Dean to break the first seal, they would have killed him as soon as he did what they wanted. From the state they'd found Estevez's body, he couldn't have lasted long. Either Dean gave in and they killed him, or he didn't give in and they tortured him to death. There weren't really any other options he could think of.

Hotch was surprised to find his glass empty, not remembering even taking a drink, let alone finishing the liquor. He quickly poured himself another before turning his attention back to the case files.

Robert Singer was nowhere to be found. Dean hadn't been joking when he said the man could go off the grid. He'd gone off and he'd stayed off. He'd even gone as far as flying out to Sioux Falls, South Dakota to knock on the man's door and… nothing. There wasn't a trace of the man and, if the state of the place from the window was any clue, he hadn't been home in a while. Hotch would have wondered if the man even existed. If it weren't for the research Garcia had done trying to track the man down, he would have been content to believe it. That lead had gone cold before it could have even been called a lead.

Two days after Dean had been taken, there had been a tip called in to the hotline. A woman brought her daughter into the station for an interview. The fifth grader claimed seeing two men dump Estevez's body the day before Hotch and his team arrived. She couldn't tell them much about their Unsubs except that they'd driven a van just like the one Dean had been taken in. The timeframe matched that of the ME's report and they hadn't seen any signs that the girl was lying so they'd taken everything they could from her testimony to add to their profile.

All of the houses of worship checked out. The interviews cleared everybody and the ones who didn't have an alibi all had various reasons that made it impossible for them to be involved in the Estevez's murder and eight other kidnappings.

Hotch closed the files and tucked them away in the desk drawer he kept for open cases.

Dean Winchester was officially dead. The bureau even went as far as to hang his picture up on the wall of agents who died in the field. He'd wanted to protest, but in all likelihood, Dean was dead; and who was he to protest the man's commemoration? Morgan and Prentiss had been angry, but mostly it was a relief to know that they weren't the only ones who thought Dean was gone. If anything, Hotch hoped he was dead. He'd been on the job too long. He knew what happened to people who survived things like this. If he was still alive, Hotch wasn't naive enough to think that Dean even wanted to live at this point. It had been a _year_. A lot of bad could be done in a much shorter amount of time.

Hotch's glass was empty again, but instead of refilling it, he took it to the kitchen kink and rinsed it out. He only poured a third drink when he wanted to drink himself under the table. He wanted nothing more than to forget everything for a little while, but he couldn't. Not only did he have work in the morning, but he also wanted to be able to talk to Jack before bedtime and he wouldn't call his son on the phone while he was slobbering drunk. He knew that story all too well and he'd be damned if he was going to do that to his own kid.

Hotch trudged upstairs and changed out of his suit. Belatedly, he thought about giving Sam a call. He discounted the idea immediately though. This was a bad day for the entire team. Hotch couldn't imaging just how bad it was for Sam. It was too personal for Hotch to involve himself so he let the idea pass through his head and then make a prompt exit, thanks for coming out. Instead, he dialed Haley's number so he could speak to his son. Jack was probably the only person in the world right now who could make today just a little brighter.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Sergio climbed onto the couch next to Prentiss and stretched out his lithe frame, claiming the two unoccupied cushions as his own. Prentiss didn't even notice. Her attention was focused on the TV screen which displayed the ever favorite _Godzilla versus Mothra_. She and Dean used to argue about which Godzilla movie was the best. She was a fan of the original, but Dean liked the whole 'ass-kicking bug goes up against the king of all monsters' plotline.

Just as Godzilla and Battra were about to be swallowed up by the crack in the ocean floor, Sergio decided that enough was enough and that he needed some attention. The cat climbed his way into her lap and rubbed himself against her until her hand came up to stroke his fur. Normally, she liked that Sergio was such an affectionate cat; it was nice to feel needed and loved. But sometimes, not very often, she just wished that she could settled down and watch a movie without being disrupted.

She knew she was letting her emotions get riled up again, but after going so long just pushing them down, it was nice to let them go a little. She'd tried laying down and sulking, even managed to squeeze out a few tears, but mourning just wasn't something she did well. It wasn't that her and Dean weren't close. They hadn't known each other for long before he disappeared, but she'd been closer to him than to the rest of the team at that point in time. He'd been the first to welcome her to the BAU—the fact that he'd been trying to get into her pants at that time notwithstanding—and he'd paved the way for her with the others. They'd all been wary about having someone come in to replace Elle, especially someone with the connections she had. There was suspicion in everyone's eyes but Dean's.

"I know the look," he said to her after she asked why he trusted her when no one else seemed to. "You're trying to get out from under someone, pave your own way. I like you, Prentiss. You're smart, but most importantly, you're persistent. You'll be good for the team." Then he smacked her on the back once and gave her a wink and sauntered back to his desk like it had been any other conversation. She knew differently, though. It had taken a lot for him to open up even that much.

It had only been a matter of time before the others came around to his way of thinking. She owed it largely in part to the easy way Dean seemed to include her in everything. His constant movie quips had her smirking and smiling to the point where she'd just jump right in whenever he got going about a recent episode of some obscure sci-fi show he was watching. Reid had been the next person to come around, followed by JJ, Garcia, and eventually, Morgan. She hadn't even needed to save anyone's life a time or two like Dean had joked.

Dean hadn't just helped her with the team. He was the one who came to work two hours early to help her with the hand-to-hand combat skills that weren't quite up to par. He was the one to suggest switching out her gun for one that suited her better. He was the one who told her not to worry about Hotch when she was practically chewing her nails off. He was the one who took her out for a drink to celebrate closing her first case and didn't try anything afterward, content to just share a drink or two and drop her back off at her place with a smile and a 'see you tomorrow.' Despite his constant flirting, he _respected_ her, and that was what made him her friend.

God, she hated that he was gone. He wasn't just gone or missing. Those she could handle. Dean had been _kidnapped_. She hated the not knowing. She didn't know whether he was dead or alive and it was hard to keep hoping when she just didn't _know_. Every fiber in her being wanted him alive and safe, but there was that small, persistent part of her mind that told her that her friend was gone forever and she would never see him again.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Sam sat in his car outside of the coffee shop, waiting for the right time to walk in. It was just after seven and he had been off work almost an hour. He had seen Spencer at this same shop just two weeks ago and he didn't want another run in with the FBI agent, especially since the man was a profiler. The last thing he needed was someone to tell his boss what he was doing in his down time.

Since that last accidental encounter, Sam made sure to scope the place out before going in for what he needed. There was no sign of Spencer or anyone else that could give him a hard time. A couple of patrolmen had been in the shop once or twice since he'd been on watch, but they'd merely gone in for a quick cup of mud and walked out again, their minds at ease.

This part always made him nervous. It used to be that he only needed to make this trip once a month. Lately, though, supplies only lasted two weeks. The longer he was on it, the more he needed for the same effect. He thought about switching up, but he didn't want anything too hardcore. He needed his job and the comfort his pay grade provided, if only to support his habit. As long as it didn't affect his work, he was alright with what he was doing.

There was another reason he needed this job so much. It was all busywork and he never any time to think about things outside the Quantico field office. His job took his mind off of everything and didn't give him any time to do anything but help people. When he went home for the day though, he was forced to replay events in his head over and over until it drove him crazy. He'd been over the files, poured through the team's testimonies and reports, been through the suspect lists so often that he pretty much had the case memorized. Every week or two, he would get a call or a text or an email from Hotch saying that they were still looking and not to lose hope. These had spread out to every few weeks, to every month. It had been a couple months since the last one and he knew from Dean's picture going up on the wall that they'd finally stopped looking.

There was no hope. His brother was the only one who knew everything about Sam. He'd been there to take care of Sam before either of them had been out of elementary school. When everything was bad—and through the years, there were some times he didn't think things were able to get any worse—they'd always had each other. Now, though, Sam was alone for the first time.

He didn't handle alone well.

Satisfied that no one who could identify him was in the vicinity, Sam exited the Impala he'd inherited from his brother and strode into the coffee shop. He saw his man sitting in the corner on his laptop, nursing a mug of steaming something. Sam had never seen the man leave. For all he knew, he owned the place.

Trying not to appear suspicious, he ordered a small black coffee to go before he sat in the seat across from the man. Sam had never asked his name and the man never offered it.

"Hey there, partner," the man said looking up from his laptop. He always looked different than Sam pictured him in his head. His features were obscure and Sam wasn't even sure he could pick the man from a lineup though he'd been in contact with him multiple times over the last four months. He was young despite the wrinkles and pockmarks on his face, probably in his early thirties. He had brown eyes and short brown hair. Like Sam, he wore a business suit, but it wasn't FBI issue… more like a law firm intern. "What can I do you for?"

The exchange was quick. Sam and the man made the switch under the table all the while making pointless conversation in case someone was listening. Sam slipped the small vial into his pocket, said goodbye, and left sipping the bitter coffee. It was disgusting. He started the car and drove home quickly, doing his best to avoid the speed traps.

When he'd first come east to Quantico for the Academy, Sam had been staying in an apartment complex until he could locate a place. With Dean gone, it didn't take much to transfer the lease and have him moved into Dean's loft. Sam supposed it hadn't been the best idea to stay in his brother's apartment, but he had nowhere else to go. He didn't have anywhere to put Dean's things, and he would rather shave his head bald than sell them. Dean was coming home, dammit, and Sam would make sure everything was ready and waiting for him when he did. He couldn't afford to keep up two places and Dean wouldn't mind Sam taking the bed for a while.

Sam put his keys and wallet in the dish by the door. He disarmed and stuck his gun and badge in the wall safe that only he and Dean knew the combination to. He'd never gotten it from Dean, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to crack a safe. Luckily, it wasn't a newer model. He hadn't kept up with those particular skills and, like everything else, the technology was always changing.

Sam set the alarm despite the early hour and stripped for bed, sliding on a pair of pajama bottoms before slipping under the covers.

He remembered a time when they'd always shared a bed. Traveling from hotel to motel to everything in-between, Dean and Sam had had to share a bed every night until their father was arrested. Dean always had nightmares. Even if he didn't tell Sam about them, Sam knew. It was in the way Dean would twitch awake and break out in a cold sweat and look around the room as if he didn't believe he was still safe in whatever place they'd taken up for the night. Most nights, Sam would wake up when Dean left the bed to check the salt lines or pour over their father's notes. Dean had been doing it since Sam could remember. He was the one who'd held the family together for as long as he had.

Thoughts of Dean and their childhood circled through his head, always accompanied by the pang of guilt and anger at not being able to save him. He just couldn't take it.

He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the vial of amobarbital the man had given him. He knew what it was just like he knew he couldn't ever stop taking it. Outside of work, it was the only thing keeping him going by taking away the memories. Sam knew that the time up until he took it would be pure torture. He slipped the needle into the top of the vial, pushed air into it and pulled the plunger back out, drawing just enough of the clear liquid to allow him to drift into the high that offered him some semblance of comfort.

He knew things were bad and that he wasn't handling them well. He knew that Dean's team was worried about him if the way Morgan or Gideon would sometimes stop by his floor on the way to or from a case was any indication. He knew that he was continuing down a path that would lead him to a worse place than he was in now. He knew that he wasn't thinking clearly about anything. He knew that if he wanted to pull himself out, he needed help. But, more than any of the other things he knew, Sam knew that wherever Dean was, it was worse for him than it was for Sam, and the thought made everything just that much harder.


	12. Year Two

_Year Two_

"Like the others in the garrison, you will be re-baptized and given a new name. Are you planning on residing in one of our apartments?" Michael asked.

Jimmy nodded. This was his first day as part of the garrison. He had been a full-fledged angel at Hope and Faith Medical institute for six years, but he never thought he'd make it into the garrison—the most prestigious of the Angels—in such a short time. Heck, he didn't think he would ever get this far. He was glad that they trusted him enough to allow him into the fold.

"I will have Anna show you to your room after your shift and you can decide on your new name with her. Is that alright?"

"Yes," Jimmy said. "Though it may have to wait a while afterward. I promised Ms. Welch that I would come by to see her after work." Ms. Welch was one of their recent, more permanent, patients. She didn't have any family, but Jimmy liked to stop by to talk to her after his shifts.

Michael smiled proudly. "Good man," he said.

Jimmy was dismissed, but he went happily. Throughout the rest of the day, he walked on clouds. There was no way that life could be better than it was at that moment. He changed bedpans and gave sponge baths and brought and cleared dinner trays, all with a smile. That night, when he went to see Ms. Welch, she was waiting for him. She was happy to know that he was becoming a member of the garrison. She smiled proudly at him like he was her own son and it made him glad that he could have this effect on her.

"They need someone like you, Mr. Novak," she told him before he left. "They need someone who takes the time to care for those around him, even when he doesn't need to."

When Anna showed up to take him to his new home, Ms. Welch just smiled at his protests claiming that she needed to sleep and they could continue their chat some other time.

Anna walked with him down the street to what looked like a small hotel. He voiced his opinion.

"It is," Anna told him. "Most of the rooms are rented out to guests, but the garrison occupies the east wing. We have our own sealed security system and only Angels in the garrison have keycards to access it." She handed him a gold keycard. _Angel_ was printed in white calligraphy on the front. On the back beneath the data strip was a line for him to sign his new name, whatever it was.

Jimmy's room was on the second floor. It's window faced the alleyway, but he thought that was better than it facing the street. At least this way the streetlamps wouldn't shine into his room during the day. His room was smaller than he thought, but it was big for a hotel room. There was a small kitchenette with a medium sized fridge and a stove. There was a small desk for him to work at and a queen bed behind it. There was a decent sized closet and a more than decent sized restroom. Though it was all—well, besides the bathroom—one large room, Jimmy though it looked comfortable. It would be a nice home once he added a few personal touches.

"Your mail will be delivered through here," she pointed to a mail slot in the door. "Staff collects and delivers it straight to the room. There is no alcohol or tobacco use on the premises. Guests must check in at the front desk and are unable to stay for more than three days and two nights out of the week or one week out of the month. There is no maid or cleaning service in this part of the hotel so it is your job to keep the room up to standards. I have spoken with Michael. He is going to have the paperwork sent here for you to fill out and sign."

Jimmy was speechless. It was a bit too much, too fast. He had just barely made it through the door and now the thoughts were catching up to him about cleaning out his house to put on the market and packing up his things and what he was going to donate because there was no way he could fit everything in this small room.

Anna must have caught the slightly panicked expression on his face because her hand came to rest on his shoulder. "James," she said.

He looked at her.

"There is much to do, but you have plenty of time to do it. For now, why don't we get dinner and talk about your plans for the future?"

"That sounds perfect," he said.

"There is still the matter of your name to discuss. Everyone in the garrison gets one and it unites us as brothers and sisters. I took the name Anael, who brings joy and peace, because it is what I want most in life. When you choose a name, make sure that it is one that shows who you are," she suggested.

"I don't really know any angels," he admitted.

"Most of us don't at first," she assured. "If you'd like, I can suggest some names and you can choose from them."

Jimmy smiled sheepishly. "If you don't mind."

"Good. How about we get dinner first though?"

They ended up at a small Chinese restaurant down the street that Anna frequented. Jimmy had never been partial to Asian food, but he agreed to try it. While they waited for their food to arrive—Jimmy allowed Anna to order for the both of them as she was the one who had more experience with foreign cuisine—they both discussed names.

"How about Ezekiel?" she asked.

"Who is he?"

"He is the angel of charity and the defender of truth."

Jimmy thought about it. From the outside, some may have considered him charitable, but he knew that he wasn't. To him, charity implied pity and he wasn't one to pity others. Empathy he could do, pity was beyond him. He shook his head. "It doesn't really sound like me," he told her.

"Ambriel is said to be a pure spirit and is considered to be an angel of protection. That certainly sounds like you."

Jimmy didn't think so. There were too many things he regretted to be considered a 'pure spirit.' Not only that, but he couldn't protect anyone if he tried—just look at what had happened to his family. Let someone else who fit the name have it. "No," he whispered.

Anna smiled sadly. She didn't know what caused the change in his voice, but she knew that it had something to do with his family so she let it be. "There's Castiel," she offered. "He is a soldier of God positioned on earth. He is sometimes referred to as an angel of travelers."

"Travelers?" he asked skeptically.

She nodded. "Journeys do not always need to be physical. You have come such a long way but you never leave the city and you are always helping others get to where they need to go. Not only that," Anna smiled one of her unusual smiles, "but today is Thursday. Castiel is the angel of Thursdays."

"Castiel," he rolled the name across his tongue and found it sat nicely. "I like it." He smiled. "I am Castiel," he told her. "Angel of the Lord."

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Morgan felt good today. Last year at this time, he'd been a wreck looking for relief at the bottom of any bottle he could find. Needless to say, it didn't turn out so well. Seeing Dean's picture every time he entered the office also hadn't helped, not that Strauss would listen to him when he told her Dean was still out there somewhere and they didn't know for sure he was dead. He didn't believe it, not anymore. In all likelihood, Dean had died shortly after he'd been taken and he was buried in a ditch somewhere without even a grave marker. He didn't like the idea, but he was logical about it—most of the time.

Today, though, on the second anniversary of Dean's disappearance, Morgan was content. He was busy remodeling his latest buy—a fixer-upper on the edge of town that he was trying to flip within the next month or so—and having fun with the demolition. There was something so satisfying about taking a sledgehammer to the floor that everything else just melted away. He wasn't angry anymore, he wasn't depressed. He'd moved past most of the stages of grief and into utter acceptance. Dean was gone and this year things weren't as bad as last year and next year would be better than this one.

His sledgehammer came down hard again onto the tile-covered cement porch. Everything was coming up. The house was going to be stripped, the floor torn up, a couple of walls coming down, doors replaced, wallpaper gone, rooms painted and furnished to turn this old, woebegone house into a home that he could sell to a nice family of four. The porch was the first thing he wanted to get rid of. It obviously had nothing to do with the fact that it was the only job that allowed him the opportunity to use a sledgehammer on the worst of anniversaries.

Morgan took a short break and wiped his hand across his forehead. He was working up a good sweat and was pleased that he could forego his usual night run in favor of a shower. He would need it by the time he finished. He took a quick swig of water before going back to work, slamming the sledgehammer down again and again until there was nothing left of the porch but rubble.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Reid sat on his couch and stared at the empty vial of dilaudid on the table that he usually kept in his medicine cabinet. He should have gotten rid of it—planned to get rid of it—before his withdraw symptoms could get bad enough. Instead, he'd kept it. It wasn't a memento as much as it was the physical embodiment of the promise he'd made to himself when he decided to quit. Just as much as he was sure he never wanted to take dilaudid again, he was sure that the cravings would return. When they did, he promised himself, he wouldn't go at it alone. He had an entire team that could help him through things. If he would have realized that sooner, maybe he wouldn't have chosen the path he had. Either way, it didn't matter. There was no point in dwelling in the what-ifs of life. He'd had enough time to consider those already and all they did was lead to things he really didn't want to think about.

Instead, Reid picked up his phone and dialed JJ's home phone number. His cravings were bad today and, as much as the vial reminded him just how bad things had gotten when he was taking the dilaudid, it also reminded him of just how easily he could get his mind to go blank if he wanted it badly enough. Today of all days, he wanted it badly. The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. He contemplated hanging up, but decided to leave a message instead. If JJ knew what was happening in his head, he would be forced to stay put instead of going to the coffee shop just two blocks away that he hadn't stepped foot in in months.

"Hey JJ," Reid said into the receiver. "It's Spencer. Um. You told me to call if it got bad and it's… JJ it's bad. I don't know if I can do it alone today. Please call me back. Bye."

He hung up the phone, hating how needy he sounded. He was the youngest member of the BAU and they already treated him like a kid. The worst part for him was the thought that maybe he did rely on them just a little too much. Dean's disappearance was even harder to handle after Tobias Hankel. Reid had been depressed—he still was, even if he didn't bother to admit it to himself. His house had been a mess, his appearance even more so. He was angry and short tempered and acted nothing like the man they all knew. He was still helpful and full of facts, but he'd lost his innocence with Hankel and there hadn't been much there to begin with. Dean's disappearance came back to haunt him tenfold because now he _knew_. He knew just how scared Dean was and just how horrible it could be to have all of your freedom taken away from you. And, unlike Reid, Dean hadn't been saved, wasn't rescued by his friends. They'd all let him down and that thought took the biggest toll on the young genius.

Reid reached out for the vial and clenched it tightly in his hand. He'd made a promise, not just to himself, but to his team as well. He could do this, he assured himself. He was stronger than this. He could do this. It was times like this that he wished he'd stayed in NA, found himself a sponsor to talk to on bad days, but NA hadn't done much for him. He'd always been more of a suffer in silence kind of person. Look how well that turned out for him, his brain supplied.

Reid leaned back, pasting himself to the couch. He settled on embedding himself in that one spot and not moving until the next day. He had two days left until he needed to go to work and the weekend seemed to stretch interminably in front of him. He could survive the night, but the entire weekend sitting home alone with his books? Normally, that was all the convincing he would have needed to feel at peace. Now, though, it seemed like a prison sentence. Reid wanted to leave his apartment—do _something_ to distract himself—but he didn't like the ideas that flitted through his head about where he might end up. So he was confined to his house for the next two days. His mind swam too much to even bother trying to read and though the television had been on for most of the morning, he hadn't been paying attention to it so it wasn't much of a distraction.

Sometimes, he really hated how he couldn't turn his brain off just for a few hours.

Two hours passed with Reid sitting on the couch, alternating between staring at the ceiling, staring at the television, and staring at the empty vial in his hand, before someone knocked loudly on his front door. Reid startled for a moment, shoving the vial into the closest drawer as if it was full and he'd been caught using again, and answered the door. JJ stood there, short and blonde, smiling up at him. "Hey, Spence," she said. "I got your message and I figured today was the perfect day for take out and _Cranium_."

Reid couldn't help but smile back at her. It _was_ the perfect day for take out and _Cranium_. He ushered her into his—now that he realized, slightly messy—apartment and grabbed a couple of plates and forks. JJ had gone with Filipino this time and he piled his plate high with adobo and sisig and pancit and white rice. JJ set up the board game and Reid couldn't help but smile at the memory of the first time he'd played. It was Dean that recommended that particular game one day while he and JJ and Morgan were hanging out at Dean's place. Morgan groaned at the suggestion.

_"Seriously, man? _Cranium_? You know Pretty Boy here is gonna have us all beat."_

_Dean smiled mischievously at him. "Don't think so, Morgan. If anyone here is king of knowing useless crap, it's me." _

_"I don't know," JJ said. "Reid's pretty much bought stock in that market."_

_Reid laughed at their praise. "Hey," he protested, "knowledge is never crap. I don't mind playing," he added. _

_"Of course not," Morgan joked. "You have this in the bag."_

_"I feel insulted here," Dean said. "You mean to tell me that you think _Reid_ is gonna win this thing? That's it, game on."_

"He whupped all our buts at this game," Reid told JJ. "I don't know who was more surprised, me or Dean?"

"Dean probably. None of us could believe that there were actually things you didn't know."

"Most of my knowledge stems from textbooks and field reports. Dean was right about him knowing the most amount of useless crap."

JJ laughed and Reid felt good. They would play a game for their long lost friend and swap Dean stories and laugh at his many exploits while they completely avoided what they both knew, but were loathe to admit—that their friend was never coming back. Reid looked down at his plate of food which was suddenly unappetizing.


	13. Year Three

_That whole "graphic depictions of violence and torture" stuff starts here. This chapter is pretty mild, no torture or anything, but I will be delving into it much deeper later on. Fearless Readers, consider yourselves warned :) Read on!_

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_Year Three_

Both of them were wrong. It took a long time—much longer than Alistair had thought it would—but Dean broke. Three years passed in the sheer agony of Alistair's chamber with nothing to mark the time but his daily meals—which he was often left unable to eat after a particularly bad session—before Dean said yes.

Dean had been released from his restraints that day, three hours early, and led away from the chamber he'd hardly ever been out of. He was led through a small row of cages and into another room that resembled his own. In front of him, a woman had stood shaking, shivering into the corner. A knife was placed into his hand.

They had done this dance a few times. Before that day, Dean would stand here, knife in hand, and change his mind at the last moment, remembering the promise he'd made to himself. That day, though, Dean walked into the room, up to the sniveling woman in the corner, lifted her to his chest, and slit her throat.

That was months ago.

Now, Dean stood in the doorway of his cage. Being a high-level Demon, he had his own room. After Alistair left, Azazel made him his number two. To say he had a crap job—pun intended—was an understatement. At least the way Azazel had things set up, Dean spent more time patching people up than breaking them down. There was plenty of breaking, however, and Dean wasn't in denial about it anymore.

It disgusted him after and he was plagued with nightmares for days following every session, but a part of him—a larger part than he cared to admit—was happy whenever he had an instrument in his hands. There was something about being in control that made up for all the times it had been him tied to the bed frame. He understood why Alistair took so much pleasure in Dean's pain. If he could just stop the self-loathing that came to him afterward, he could be just as carefree about his victims as his mentor.

But he couldn't, try as he might, so Dean came up with an alternative. He would take his pleasure in the pain he caused, but, unlike Alistair, he wouldn't actively seek it out. Whenever a new Demon was brought into The Pit—and because all the new Demons caused too much trouble for their own good—he would break him, but then he moved on. He spent his days as Doc, stitching people up and putting them back together again. No one else had the same level of skill he had with a needle. Alistair was a master at taking a man apart—Dean had seem him do it on multiple occasions—but he wasn't nearly as skilled at the opposite. That had been Dean's job. It wasn't just a skill that he'd picked up over the years in The Pit. It was something that had been ingrained in him a long time ago. The longer he was in The Pit, the harder it got to remember the outside, but he remembered that much at least.

The days tended to blur together. Actually, Dean wasn't really sure whether it was daytime or not. There were no windows to let the sun in, but the Angels lowered food down once every twenty-four hours or so. Dean had taken to calling that time 'breakfast.' No matter what time of day or night they were fed, technically Dean was correct. It was a break in the fast that was their interminably long and hungry day. Night brought no peace for him either. When he wasn't dreaming of the cold bite of the silver scalpel on his flesh, he stayed awake listening to the calls and moans from the cages around him.

Twelve medium-sized cages lined a wall of The Pit that was nothing more than an extra wide hallway. The walls were metal and the floors were concrete. Someone had tried to break through the floor in one of the corners, but beneath the concrete were metal bars. Only one wall had cages. The other three walls had doors: one door on each side of the cages and two more facing them. One of these doors was Dean's. Before it had been his, it was Alistair's, but Alistair was gone now so Dean got the room to himself. One door belonged to Azazel who shared his room—if not his bed—with Meg. Through the third door was the morgue. The dead took up that room. No one slept through the fourth door. It used to be Dean's old room, but now it was where Dean worked. Unlike the other rooms, the last one had medicine and extra supplies and medical instruments of all shapes and sizes. Dean knew how to use them all.

Sometimes there weren't enough cages for the Demons. When that happened, either they would share or—most often—Azazel would send the extras to Dean. There wasn't enough room or supplies to keep them all alive, after all. Azazel was the one who thought practically about these things. That was why he was in charge. Dean didn't really care about any of that. Things worked how they worked. He'd been in The Pit long enough to learn that. He couldn't even remember a time when he wasn't in the cold darkness that was his own, personal Hell.

Right on time, the hatch above them opened and cast the day's amount of sunlight into the hole. Dean walked forward into the light and easily held off the others with a look. Everyone knew who he was and he was the only person—well, besides Azazel—who was not to be trifled with. When the cage was lowered down with the small box of food, a case of water, and a shipment of medical supplies, Dean called his two best men—an older man and a female teen who'd been two of the few to survive as long as they had—forward to help carry the boxes into his office. When they were cleared, Dean stepped back and allowed the rest of the Demons to flock to the light. He was sure this was just another form or torture for them, having a small taste of the sunlight just to be cast off again, back into darkness with nothing more than a single light bulb to illuminate The Pit.

Dean didn't really care about the light. Somewhere along the line, maybe while he was under Alistair's knife, he'd learned to roll with the punches and to not want more than he was given. The light was just another form of torture for them and he didn't want the small piece of hope it offered when he'd have to live with the consequences. Hope was unnecessary. Dean didn't have any hope except to live through to the next day and even that hope was a sketchy one. He picked up the small box and put it on the metal tray next to the bed frame in his office.

"Doc?"

Dean looked up form the box, instantly alert. There was no resting here, not even in sleep. If anyone was anywhere near you, you were in danger. It was just how things were. The man in the doorway was small, but old. No one knew who he'd been on the outside, but here he was known as Mouse—not because of his size, but because of the twitch thing he did with his nose when he was nervous. Down in The Pit, that was all the time.

"What." Dean said, a barked order rather than a question.

"Do you want me to line them up?" Mouse asked, nose twitching furiously.

For some people, the twitching got old, but Dean didn't much mind. Everyone had his or her breaking point—Dean knew that better than anyone down there—and everyone expressed it differently. Dean had been the one to train Mouse. Every twitch was a testament to the man's subservience. If anything, it showed Dean just how much he was able to trust the man. That wasn't to say he trusted him very far, but it was enough to let the man run a few errands here and there. "Yeah," Dean told him. "You know the drill. Sick get first dibs and after that it's youngest to oldest. I'm gonna take some stuff to Azazel and after that, I'll take care of the rest of the Demons."

Mouse nodded, twitched his nose, and left to take care of the lineup.

Dean grabbed a bottle of water from the case, an orange, and a few crackers from the box to take to Azazel. When Dean looked up from the box again, Meg stood in the doorway.

"Hey there, Doc," she said alluringly.

"Meg." She was the only Demon he'd known to keep her name. Dean couldn't remember his own, but he thought it might have started with a W.

"Daddy wanted me to bring his food. You know how he gets on his bad days."

Dean just nodded and handed over the supplies in his hands. "I'll be by after I'm done with check-ups. You can line up when you're done giving those to Azazel," he added.

Meg took the outstretched food and tossed a glare over her shoulder on the way out. Dean knew he shouldn't antagonize her like he did, but he just couldn't help it. She was a lot tougher than she looked and it was stupid to make an enemy. Dean couldn't really muster up a lot of regret for it though. Dean had power here, but Meg flaunted it. She was one sadistic motherfucker and Dean just didn't give a rat's ass who she thought she was. As far as he was concerned, the only one who cared whether Meg lived or died was Azazel. It was the only reason she was even alive and it wouldn't last much longer. Azazel was on his way out and Dean would be the one to take over. Meg would die and Dean would probably be the one to kill her. The thought only offered a minute amount of comfort and he squelched it quickly. There was work to do. He didn't have time for fantasy.

When the Demons finished lining up outside his office, Dean let the first one in. She was, by far, the sickest of them in The Pit. She and another prisoner had gotten into a skirmish two weeks before over something he'd already punished out of the other Demon. What he cared about now was the large bite wound on the back of her shoulder that had promptly become infected. With some disinfectant and a bandage, it would have been fine, but this wasn't the outside. This was The Pit.

The bite had swollen almost immediately and turned a concerningly shiny red. Dean had been trying to keep it clean, but there was only so much water in the place and there hadn't been enough to spare for the girl. Greenish pus had oozed from it for a while, and when the cut finally clotted… Dean knew it wasn't good.

Two men carried her into Dean's office and laid her on the bed. They weren't gentle, but they weren't overly forceful about it. Dean turned her around so her shoulder was exposed. She didn't even wake up. He checked her pulse quickly to assure himself that she was, in fact, alive. There was no use wasting supplies on the dead. The pulse was strong, even if she wasn't. Dean thumbed through the medical supplies, looking to see what they'd brought him. There were a dozen of them down there now, but that didn't mean there would be enough medical supplies to keep them all alive for another month or two until another shipment could come in. If there weren't any extras or if they were missing something that they'd need to keep her alive, Dean would have to treat her the only way he really knew how.

Dean smiled when he saw the extra syringes, bandages, topical cream, and nearly half-dozen bottles of Streptomycin. There were enough nylon sutures to last them a while, but he was worried about everything else. As usual, there were no pain meds or anything that could be used to bring down a fever. From the heat coming off the girl's skin, Dean wasn't too sure she would be able to fight off the infection at this stage, even with the antibiotics.

He turned her back over to face upward and smacked her cheek to startle her awake. It took a few tries, but she finally woke enough to peer lazily up at him. "Doc?" she asked confused.

"Hey, Pretty," he said slowly. He knew he would have to kill her, but there were a few things he still needed to do. "I have a few questions for you. Can you answer them for me?"

She shivered violently, but her eyes were more aware. She was terrified of him. She knew what he would do if he needed answers and she couldn't give them. He was an expert in figuring out if someone was lying. She nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak. She would willingly tell him anything he wanted to know.

"Good," he said. "First question. What is your name?"

It was too easy.

It took her a second to answer and Dean was afraid that she was too far gone to answer any of his questions, but she opened her mouth to speak. "Pretty," she said, her voice cracking and the shivers increasing slightly.

"No," Dean said, "not that name." He made sure to keep his voice low and soft, but all that did was terrify her even more.

The Demons knew he never did anything to them when he was angry. It was when he was calm and collected that they all had reason to worry. When Doc was mad, they would all hear loud bangs and crashes coming from his office. Sometimes, he kicked at the cages or he would walk out of his room with a bloody fist and a taped finger from punching the walls. When Doc was angry, he secluded himself and nobody got hurt. Everything else he did to them, when they were taken into his office on days that weren't check-up days, there was no anger. There was just the calm and controlled voice he had right at that moment.

"I need your name from the outside," he said in that horribly calm voice of his. "The name you had before you were a Demon in The Pit. Can you remember?"

She shook her head, no. She had always been Pretty, hadn't she? She liked her name and it made her feel really good when Doc had told her. It was because of something that he liked, she remembered. He said she was really pretty. Really Pretty. That was her name. She told him so.

Doc smiled at her and it made her want to cry. He never smiled. Ever. That must mean something really bad. Some Demons liked to smile while they did bad things. There was no other reason to smile here.

"It's okay, Pretty," Doc said. "I'm not going to hurt you. You have an infection and I need to treat you now, okay? Today is check-up day."

All the tension went out of her then. If it was check-up day then that meant she could be in Doc's office and it wasn't a Bad Day. She would get food and she would be taken care of. Her shoulder would be fixed and then she could go back into The Pit and maybe she could get Lassie to teach her how to do that back bend thing. It got a bit hard to think after that. Her head felt like Jell-O.

"Close your eyes," Doc said and she listened.

She winced a bit when he lifted her off of the bed. She panicked slightly that she didn't know what he was doing, but it was _Doc_, she reminded herself, so it would all be okay. Even on Bad Days, Doc made it okay. He was good like that.

Dean lifted her off of the bed and laid her down on the floor. He pulled at her arm and angled it so that it was just over the small drain that was there. There wasn't anything they could use to clean up a real mess so he'd always been careful about how and where he did his slicing and dicing. The drain would work for what he had in mind.

"Be still and keep your eyes closed," he ordered her, making sure to steel his voice so she wouldn't even think of struggling. He softened for the second part. "You'll feel a sharp pain in your wrist. There's something I need to do because of the infection, understand?"

She didn't respond.

"Answer me," he ordered.

"Yes," she whispered. She was used to sharp pains. It would be alright. At least she knew that Doc didn't want to hurt her, that she didn't do anything bad. The blade that swiped across her wrist was sharp so it didn't hurt nearly as much as it could have. Actually, compared to the first few days in The Pit, it was quite mild.

Less than a minute later, her head was swimming again and, though she was lying on the ground, she was suddenly very dizzy. Her limbs ached, but before the real pain could set in, she lost consciousness. Minutes later, she was dead.

Dean kept her hand held over the drain, letting it carry her blood away from the room he called his office. A few splashes got on the concrete floor, but most of it went where Dean wanted it to go. When her wrist stopped bleeding openly, Dean took off her sweater, socks, shoes, and pants. He could use them to clothe the Demons or for bandages, whichever came first. He cut off a small piece of cloth from her t-shirt, no bigger than the size of his palm, and dabbed it onto her slightly dripping wrist, soaking half of it in her blood. With that done, he called out to Mouse and Grunt to move her to the morgue while he treated the rest of the Demons.

While they lifted her corpse out of the room to toss her in with the thirty or so other bodies in the room next to his, Dean pulled out the permanent marker he'd been given to write on the piece of cloth not soaked in Pretty's blood. _F. BL. G. 5'2". 110_, he wrote: female, blonde hair, blue eyes, height, weight. He didn't know why he did this. Something told him that it was important to keep track of all of the victims and to get a DNA sample if he could. Being the doctor, he could get whatever he needed from them.

Dean laid the cloth onto the metal tray to dry. When it did, he would add it to the collection he kept in his inside Jacket pocket. There were ten people in there now. Pretty would make eleven. He knew exactly how many people had died since he became Doc. The trophies weren't there to remind him of his victories, but of his failures. They were the last place ribbons he may or may not have gotten as a child, not that he could really remember anything past The Pit.


	14. Year Four

_WARNING: Semi-graphic depictions of torture in this chapter._

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_Year Four_

Dean had lost track of they days a few months back so the fourth anniversary of his imprisonment could have possibly been the following day. Dean wasn't sure.

He laid on the small cot he called a bed. With his door closed, even if he was asleep, he could be up and ready to attack before anyone was close enough to try anything. His arm rested on his forehead and his legs were splayed out any which way. He had a headache and a pain in his stomach. It had been so long since fresh fruit had come down that he was having a hard time processing it. The citrus was hard on his stomach, but he knew he needed the vitamins it provided. Luckily there'd been enough fruit for all of them to have their own piece. Some had even gotten to pick between an apple and an orange.

It was a good day.

Other than the stomach ache, Dean was content.

He hadn't had nightmares the previous night so he was well rested. The Demons were satisfied that their cuts and scrapes were treated and their stomachs were happy to be filled once again. It was a rare thing for them to have enough food to keep them full for even half the day—even when Dean split it up into multiple servings. This time, though, there had been plenty for them to have three small meals before another box could be lowered down tomorrow.

Two fights had broken out before even five people had had their check-ups—one over who would get treatment first, and the second over a few extra crackers. Dean had settled them both and only had to spill blood once to deal with them. The injured couple was treated last, even the relatively healthy went before them. The fight over food, though, was not something Dean would tolerate. The food was divided however Dean divided it. He saw no point in fighting over something so small, especially when there was plenty to go around,. They had enough to keep them alive without resorting to cannibalism as long as they were careful about it. Yet, for some reason Dean didn't understand, the Demon just couldn't leave well enough alone.

The reason he was so relaxed now, he knew, was because of his earlier session. The Demon who had tried to steal Mouse's crackers was taken immediately to Dean's office following the incident—on Azazel's orders. He'd gotten three crackers before the others had been able to pull him off of the man.

Three crackers. Three hours. Azazel trusted him to carry out the punishment.

Dean set up three Demons outside of his office to keep the time. "Seconds." He pointed to Midge, a middle-aged woman with a deep southern accent who stood just above his waist. "Minutes." He pointed to Slash, the female teen who'd helped carry the boxes into his office that morning. "Hours." This last one was reserved for Mouse, whose breakfast crackers had been taken. They all knew the drill. Midge would tap out a steady beat against the wall. Every sixty seconds, Slash would tap. And every sixty minutes, Mouse would knock on his door once. Three knocks and the Demon's time on the rack would be up.

Time always passed much quicker than Dean thought it would. The three knocks came almost immediately, but he knew they hadn't dared tap too quickly. For one, the other Demons were paying attention. For another, Azazel was probably watching and listening intently, not wanting to miss out on a single deliciously heard scream from the Demon under his knife.

Dean was careful not to make too big of a mess of things. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he were to die. Dean started slowly, letting the man's fear build up so that every touch, even the smallest tap, would make the man flinch beneath him. Dean bound him and gagged him and blindfolded him. He covered the bulb that flared brightly above him so that just enough light to see by got through, but not so much that the Demon could see it beneath the blindfold.

Dean kept silent. He knew how to move quietly in the darkness so that not even his heavy breathing could be heard in the silence. He didn't cut immediately with his scalpel. He started with the lashings first. Over every available inch of skin, a belt came down harshly. Dean made sure not to break the skin. If he could get through the session without wasting any of their newly acquired medications, he would be pleased.

Once his flesh was a satisfying shade of pink, Dean got creative. He pulled the wires he'd rigged from the outlet behind the bed and turned out the light completely. The wires were taped to the Demon's chest. Dean took off the Demon's gag and allowed him to blubber and cry for a moment before continuing.

The first knock was heard at the door. Two hours to go. Dean relished in the Demon's scream. It was filled with complete and utter hopelessness. It was the sound of a man giving up, knowing just how long he had suffered and how much longer he had to go. The tears that followed were inevitable and Dean smiled at their appearance. The time passes quickly for him, but for the Demon, it felt like hours had passed, not just one.

Alistair had been proud of Dean when he'd first suggested doing this. Knowing just how much more time there was for him to endure would make the session that much more painful. Dean had once thought that there was nothing worse than not knowing, but he'd come to realize that that wasn't necessarily true. Sometimes things were so much worse than anyone could imagine.

"Repeat after me," Dean said. "I will take only what I am given."

The Demon wailed.

Dean flicked the light switch on and watched as the Demon twitch and screamed, the electricity passing through him from the wires.

He only let it go for a half-second before he pushed the switch back down.

"I will take only what I am given," Dean said.

"I –I will ta –take only wh –what I am gi –given," the Demon stuttered.

"Again. I will take only what I am given." Dean forced the man to repeat the mantra for an hour until the second knock was heard.

By the third knock, Dean no longer had to instruct the man to repeat it. As the Demon stumbled back into The Pit, Dean could hear him mumbling the phrase under his breath. He croaked the words so softly, Dean would have had trouble making them out had he not known what they were.

After the session, Dean collapsed onto his cot, worn out from the amount of strength it took to carry out Azazel's punishments. That was where he found himself hours later, content with his life and relaxed like he never was except for when someone was on the rack under him.

His hand resting on his forehead, legs splayed beneath him, Dean drifted into a dreamless sleep until the sound of the daily rations being lowered woke him. As he passed out the bread and cheese slices, he made sure to give a healthy ration to the recently tortured Demon who thanked him profusely. Dean figured he had learned his lesson. Dean never gave the same lesson twice. Everyone knew that.

From the looks the Demon was giving him, he had a new underling to add to his growing list. Dean would be sure to take his name. Mouse, Scar, Midge, Grunt, and now the new Demon were few of those who could be counted on. The new Demon aside, they were the oldest in The Pit. Midge and Grunt had been there even longer than Dean, yet they followed him and had been broken again and reformed under his tutelage. He'd trained them all well and they would obey every command without hesitation. Soon the new Demon would do the same, but Dean was forming other plans. He was beginning to think that the new Demon would make an excellent apprentice.


	15. The Pit

It was through pure happenstance that Castiel got a look at The Pit.

He knew that becoming part of the garrison would give him more responsibility within the hospital. What he didn't know was just how in depth the church was going to become with teaching him. He had been a part of the church for years, even before he'd come to work at Hope and Faith. The Sunday after moving into his new room, the pastor took him aside and asked to meet with him in private. Castiel promptly agreed. He exited the room hours later with questions upon questions and an ancient book held in his hands: _The Book of Seals_.

Just as old as the Holy Bible, though guarded and kept a secret, the book detailed the Great Fall and prophesized the resurrection of Lucifer. Castiel didn't want to believe it at first, but after recognizing the signs of the apocalypse in the local and national news databases he kept up with, there was no doubting that the End of Days was coming. It worried him endlessly.

It took him a while—a few months actually—before he finished the Book. He returned it immediately to the pastor who sat and answered all of his questions. Yes, the world was coming to an end. There was no stopping it really. All they could do was help speed things along. If it was God's will, who were they to argue?

Castiel agreed.

The pastor led him to the basement of the church where an Angel stood, holding a small box. He was taller than Castiel, but not by much, though his skin tone was much darker. His head and face were free of any hair. None of these features stood out particularly, but the look on the Angel's face was rather intimidating.

"Castiel," the pastor introduced. "Meet Uriel."

Uriel smiled then and the air of nervousness that had surrounded Castiel disappeared. Castiel smiled back and held out his hand to shake.

Uriel set the box on a table before taking it. "Pastor Morton has told me quite a bit about you, Castiel. I am happy to finally meet you."

Castiel's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I am happy to meet you as well," he said evasively. The pastor hadn't ever mentioned the man.

The pastor spoke, "Uriel, I would like you to teach Castiel his role in the End of Days. There isn't much time to get things ready and we need him to be able to act in your place as quickly as possible. The first seal has already broken. It is only a matter of time before the rest are broken as well and we need you on the front lines. Castiel will take over your position as soon as he has been trained."

Uriel nodded seriously.

Castiel had a lot of questions, but he held his tongue. Everything would be answered and, supposedly, Uriel would be the one to provide him with information.

"Follow me, Castiel," Uriel said after the Pastor was upstairs.

Castiel followed him to the table he'd set the box on. "What is all this?" he asked curiously.

Uriel ignored the question, asking instead, "What did Pastor Morton tell you about the seals?"

"He gave me the book. I finished it yesterday, but other than that he hasn't told me anything."

"Now that the first deal has broken, there is no stopping the upcoming apocalypse. All we can do is help."

"Help how?" Castiel asked.

"The seals will be broken with or without us, but the Angels have all agreed that the best course of action is to help free Lucifer from his cage. Over the last few years, Angels have gathered what we believe to be the worst of humanity. They are being held here to help break the remaining seals. You will be taking over my job as the gatekeeper. I have been called away to attend to other business so I will spend the next two days instructing you on keeping those in Perdition from spilling out into the world."

Castiel was nervous, but there was God's work to be done. He nodded at Uriel and opened himself to learning. When he was gone, Castiel would need to know how to care for the Demons in Perdition. While evil to their very core, they had a much larger purpose in the coming war than Castiel could comprehend. They were important to the Angels and so Castiel vowed that he would learn as best he could to watch over the gates of Hell in Uriel's stead.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

When the hatch opened from above, letting light spill into The Pit, Dean dragged himself out of bed. The nightmares were getting to him again and, with how little food they'd gotten lately, he was too weak to also go without sleep.

It was a different Angel this time who lowered the crate down. Dean didn't recognize him, but he caught a glimpse of the man's black wings when the Angel turned to look behind him. Dean guessed that this rookie was going to be taking over soon. He was probably in training.

As usual, Dean held the other demons back with a glare while he, Mouse, and Cherry—his new protégé—gathered the supplies and took them to his office to prepare for check-up day. Another two Demons had been added to The Pit. Luckily for them, the boxes held more food than normal even though there were no fresh fruits or vegetables. They switched up the antibiotics. Dean was disheartened that they'd only given him three vials this time. They still had one left over from the last shipment and Dean was sure he could make them last, but not for too long, definitely not until the next shipment in a month or two. There were bottles of rubbing alcohol this time and he was grateful. He could clean his tools and the few towels they had. He could set them to soak for the day and give his office a once over. There wouldn't be enough to clean the entire place, but they could get at the worst of it.

"Line 'em up," Dean told Cherry.

He nodded and left to do as he was told. It hadn't taken Dean as long as he would have thought to break the Demon. He trusted Cherry to do as he said. After Dean's first lesson, he'd only needed minimal motivations to correct his behavior.

Everyone lined up outside his office and Dean passed out their daily rations. "Give this to Azazel," Dean told Cherry, handing him two slices of honey-coated bread and a small hunk of cheese.

Dean walked into The Pit, watching the Demons scarf down their food. He didn't blame them. If it weren't for the way his stomach turned at the thought of eating after one of his nightmares, he would have wanted to join them. Instead, he nibbled on a single slice of plain bread and saved the rest for later on when the stomach pains got so bad, he would force himself to choke something down.

He was only able to hold down half of the slice without vomiting and he didn't want to push it. It would be a waste for it to come back up. He tossed the other half of his slice into the box with their rations and stood back in his doorway until the Demons were finished. "Scar, Cherry, Grunt, Midge," he said.

All four of the Demons looked at him, waiting for orders.

"Cleaning day," Dean said.

They nodded and filed into his office.

"Everyone else, back in your cages!" Dean let the anger flare in his eyes for a split second before he reined it in.

Everyone but the two newest Demons scrambled to obey. Dean stared coldly at the newcomers until they were in their respective cages as well. It was only a matter of time until they did something that would require time on the rack. He guessed that by the time breakfast rolled around, he would have broken at least one of them. Hopefully the other would take a hint from the Demons around him before he gave Dean or Azazel any more trouble.

The Demons in their cages, Dean looked up, surprised that the gate was still open above him. The new Angel peered down at him curiously. The Demons around them made catcalls at the Angel. A few began banging their fists against their cages and screaming.

The Angel didn't pay them any attention. He looked right into Dean's eyes.

"You need something?" Dean asked, looking right back at him.

The Angel peered back at him curiously.

"Where's Chuckles?" Dean asked. "Or are you the new concierge?"

The Angel didn't answer.

"Alright then." Dean said, smirking. "If you'll excuse me." With that, he walked back into his office. When he emerged again with a bucketful of towels and two bottles of rubbing alcohol, the ceiling was dark and the Angel was gone.

He set the bucket and alcohol down in the middle of The Pit and went back into his office for a gallon of water. Everyday, he poured a little bit of water from his own bottle into the empty water jug. On good supply days like this, when he was given a few extra bottles of alcohol, he used the reserves to bathe the Demons.

He poured both bottles of alcohol and the water into the bucket and let the towels soak.

"Cherry," he called.

The Demon emerged from Dean's office, dragging a chair behind him.

He handed Cherry a towel from the bucket, trying not to let it drip all over the floor, but not wringing it out enough that it was dry. "Knock on Azazel's door and tell him Doc sent you. Hand him the towel. Make sure to look him in the eye when you speak to him," Dean said seriously.

Cherry nodded and took the towel.

Dean grabbed the chair and set it out in front of him. He pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket. "Mouse," he said. "You're up."

Mouse exited his cage quickly and sat in the chair in front of Dean. There was no fear or hesitation. Dean made sure to always have his sessions, no matter how small, in his office. In The Pit, the Demons were safe from him and they knew it. It made things easier for all of them.

The hatch above their heads opened once again and everyone gasped. As long as they'd been there, it had only ever opened once a day, everyday, to lower the crate. It had never opened twice in the same day before. The Demons quieted, terrified. All of them shrank back, glad that they were already safe in their cages.

Mouse tried to dive for his cage, but Dean's hands on his shoulders kept him in his seat. He continued trying to wiggle out of Dean's hold.

"Stay," Dean told him and Mouse stopped struggling.

Dean peered up into the light to see the same Angel as before looking down at him. When a minute passed and he didn't say anything, Dean looked back down to the Demon sitting in front of him.

"Alright, Mouse," Dean said. "How do you want it?"

"Take it all off, Doc," he whispered, not wanting his voice to carry up to the Angel. "I'm itchy enough as it is."

Dean nodded and used the scissors to cut Mouse's hair. He got as close to the scalp as he could, taking off his too long hair. It fell to the floor in knotted clumps that would be easy to pick up later. Dean didn't know the last time Mouse had had a haircut. It had been a while since his last bath.

When he finished, Dean grabbed a towel from the bucket, wrung it out a bit, and handed it to Mouse. "Make sure to get everything," Dean told him. "You don't get to clean often so make the most of it."

Mouse nodded and went back to his cage. He used the soaked towel to wash himself, spending extra time on his unmentionables. His back was still sore from where Doc had given him eight stitches after his scuffle with Cherry, but he made sure to scrub as good as he could.

"Steed," Dean pointed to the Demon in the cage next to Mouse's. "You're up next."

Steed exited the cage and sat in the chair that Mouse had just occupied.

"Cut?" Dean asked.

"Just a trim, Doc," Steed told him.

And on the day went. Every Demon got a stint in the chair and soon the floor was covered in hair. Cherry, Grunt, Midge, and Scar finished scrubbing out Dean's office. They were the last four to get their hair cut. When a Demon was finished with his towel, it was soaked again in the bucket of diluted alcohol and redistributed to the next Demon in line.

When all was done, Dean collected the towels for the last time and tossed them back in the bucket to soak. They were going to need the disinfected towels later. The air in The Pit was warm and dry so the moisture wouldn't sit to gather bacteria when he laid them out to dry.

Through the whole process, the Angel watched, never making a sound or taking his eyes off of Dean. The light was bright at first, but Dean had gotten used to it after a while. Even though he didn't look back up into it, he knew the Angel was there. The shadow cast down next to him and Dean couldn't help but keep track of it just in case. The Angel never budged, though.

At first, Dean thought that the Angel had ulterior motives, that he wanted in on the action down in Hell. The Angel stayed put though, content with just watching. Even when Dean dragged the chair to the wall next his office and set the bucket just inside the door, the Angel stared. Dean cut his own hair quickly and picked everything up from the floor to toss into a large bin in the corner that they used as a trash can. There wasn't much they had that could produce trash so it was still nearly empty.

Dean sat back in his chair, watching the Demons still shrinking into their cages at the sight of the Angel. There was too much that they didn't know so it terrified them. Dean just looked at the Angel and chuckled amusedly. It was the first real laugh he could remember having in The Pit.

The Angel cocked his head curiously.

Dean looked at the Demons again. "You guys can come out," he told them, trying to cajole them from their cages. "The Angel's just curious. You all are safe for now. Besides," he told them. "Now that you're clean, it's check-up time. They sent a box of meds down with supplies today. Mouse, line 'em up. Cherry, you're with me. It's time to continue your training."

Dean looked up to where the Angel sat, shrouded in light, and smiled. "Since you're so curious, we can do check-ups in The Pit today."


	16. Doc

Castiel watched as the man the Demons called 'Doc' went over them with a fine-toothed comb. He called them one by one from their cages and cut their hair. From the stories Uriel had told him about Doc, the man was a psychopath. Azazel was the supposed leader—though Castiel didn't even catch a glimpse of the man—and Doc was the muscle, the one who pulled Demons kicking and screaming into one of the four rooms they had and did unspeakable things to them. Their screams were so loud, Uriel told him, that they could be heard through both Doc's door and the hatch. In fact, Uriel had given him an old CD player and some headphones to drown out the noise or it would drive him insane.

While Castiel didn't feel particularly bad for throwing the men—and two women, it seemed—into the pit, he did feel bad for subjecting them to torture at the hands of such a horrible man.

That was why, when Doc came out of his 'office' to disinfect what few towels they had and to give the Demons haircuts, Castiel had been more than surprised. He listened as Doc explained his presence to the Demons. It seemed as if Doc was even trying to be comforting and to assuage the fear they had toward the unknown Angel in their midst. He bantered with the Demons as their hair fell to the ground and answered their questions. The Demons showed him no fear. Some even went as far as to become angry when Doc made a mistake, though they never acted on their anger towards the barber.

They all received a sopping wet towel from Doc after their trims. Castiel tried not to watch as the Demons bathed themselves. They were dirty and would have stained the towels further had the not already been a disgusting yellow color. Once they were finished washing the worst of the grit from their bodies, they called Doc over to their cages to retrieve them.

Castiel watched in abhorrence as Doc then soaked the towels to be given to another Demon to use. He tried not to let the disgust show on his face, but he wasn't sure whether or not he succeeded.

It was all interesting to watch. The Demons that had called out crude and suggestive things when he had been the one to lower the crate, shrunk back into their cages when he had opened the hatch the second time. He thought, perhaps, that it was because it had been unexpected for the Angel to reopen the partition out of sheer curiosity. Uriel had told him that he exposed himself to the horrors of Perdition only when necessary, which for him happened to be once a day—the bare minimum to keep the men alive.

Castiel had no qualms with exposing himself to the evil in the expanse below him. If anything, he believed that all people were capable of improvement, no matter how evil. He wanted to witness their conditions with his own eyes. Anna had been right when she implied that kindness was not the only way to help others. Some people, like the Demons who shied away from him, needed something else to help them on the path to redemption.

Uriel was a soldier. But, unlike Castiel, he was not willing to help these people like they needed to be helped. It was not because he was weak, but because he had different strengths. Anna had also been right about Castiel leading people where they needed to be. There was a reason he had been chosen to take over Uriel's position guarding the gates of Hell. He was better suited to the task than the other Angels. So Castiel watched the Demons, taking notes in his head about things like food and medicine and supplies. They looked as if they were barely holding on to life. Castiel wasn't sure what the ultimate plan was, but he did know that it required the Demons alive. They had already lost too many for comfort.

Castiel was pulled out of his head when, after cleaning the floor, Doc announced that it was check-up time. Though he supposed there was a reason the other Demons called him 'Doc,' he figured it was more in a 'cut people up' aspect, not a 'putting them back together' one. He did not expect that the Demon who stood fearlessly below him, the Demon Uriel claimed was a natural-born sadist, acted as Perdition's one and only doctor. Doc obviously had some semblance of medical knowledge with the capable way he tortured his victims, but Castiel didn't realize that that knowledge would be put to good use treating the Demons instead of harming them.

As the Demons began exiting their cages to line up, Doc looked up at Castiel. Castiel watched as Doc's eyes crinkled with an amused smile. There was no maliciousness beneath it, no anger, just vague amusement at the Angel watching him. "Since you're so curious," the Demon spoke to him directly, not paying any attention to the Demons moving around him. "We can do check-ups in The Pit today."

Castiel appreciated the courtesy and quickly stifled the emotion. There was a good reason the Angels saw fit to condemn this man—this _Demon_—to The Pit. He deserved nothing more than Castiel's scorn. Castiel turned his attention to the check-ups before he could allow himself to decipher his appreciation thoroughly.

Every inch of the Demons' bodies was checked for abrasions and when Doc found one, he cleaned it and stitched it and covered it with a bandage before sticking them with a syringe full of antibiotics. The level of compassion Doc had towards the other Demons shocked Castiel. He had seen some of that compassion as he had trimmed the Demons' hair, but this was something completely different. This time, Doc was causing pain in trying to heal their injuries. Castiel would have expected the Demon to smile and enjoy the small flinches his patients had whenever he treated a sore spot, but instead, Doc grimaced and pressed his lips into a thin line, flinching along with them as if it was him who had been hurt. It did not seem to Castiel that Doc was enjoying the pain he caused. Doc even seemed to go out of his way to make the Demons comfortable.

Everything Doc did, he explained it to the Demon, Cherry. By the time the last Demon was being checked over, Cherry was assisting more than he was watching.

Castiel was amazed at the people below him. Most of them were crude and vulgar. He didn't have any empathy for them. They were all down there for a reason, even if Castiel didn't know what that reason was. What he did know was that people were capable of so much evil that it made his head hurt and his heart ache. It only seemed right that there was a place where they could atone for their sins.

The only man that he could see who even came close to that feat was Doc—at least until one of the Demons began to cause a ruckus.

He was the last one to be inspected by Doc, a tall man with shoulder-length hair that he hadn't allowed Doc to cut. From what Castiel could see, the man was strong and healthy, probably one of Perdition's newest additions. If the bite mark on his arm was any indication, this had not been the first fight of the day for the Demon. Doc patted the cut with one of the cloths from the bucket before wiping the topical antibiotic over it. He pulled a suture kit from his pocket and attempted to close the Demon's wound.

The Demon gasped and pulled his arm back in reflex to the pain.

Doc said something to the Demon. The words didn't carry their way up to the Angel, but he could hear the calm, soothing tones that he had come to recognize from him.

The Demon reacted angrily, punching Doc across the jaw.

Doc fell back into the wall behind him and immediately brought his hand up to feel his chin for a fracture. The other Demons' eyes flew wide in shocked horror. All but three scrambled to their cages, wanting to be as far away as possible. The first was a very short female Demon. The second was a large African American man with a scar above his eyebrow. The third was a sleight, scraggly man whose nose twitched furiously. The short one and the one with the nose went to stand unobtrusively against the wall next to Doc's office while the man with the scar knocked on one of the two doors Castiel could not see inside.

The angry Demon smiled impishly at Doc and went in for another punch. Doc dodged it, ducking down, and the Demon's fist collided with the hard metal wall. He cursed loudly and held his hand to his chest. Castiel supposed that he had broken something.

A Demon emerged from the room Scar had knocked on. He was not very tall compared to Doc and the Demon, but he carried himself proudly. There was no doubt in Castiel's mind that this man was Azazel and that he was in charge of all the Demons in Perdition, including Doc. Castiel could see the yellowish tint to Azazel's eyes that signified liver failure. He supposed that there were some foods that he could provide them to slow this process. Eventually, though, the Demon would die whether Castiel helped or not.

"Awww," Azazel cooed. He smiled at the two fighting Demons. "It looks as if Doc is going to have a new playmate today, aren't we, Doc?"

Not taking his eyes off of the other Demon, Doc nodded. "Yes, sir."

The Demon threw a punch with his uninjured fist. Doc hooked his arm around it and pulled the Demon's arm behind his back. Using it as leverage, Doc steered the Demon into his office. The Demon screamed loudly and Castiel could hear the distinct creaking of a bed.

Doc exited his office sweating, but not looking as exhausted as he must have felt, and closed the door. The screams of the Demon were mostly muffled, but Castiel could still hear them. He knew that if he closed the gate, the screams would fade away completely. Doc picked up the bucket of towels and began wringing them out over one of the drains on the floor. He strung up a line of twine between two pipes to hang the towels up to dry. Doc left one towel in the bucket, which mystified Castiel. Why would he just leave the one?

"Doc?"

Doc looked up at Azazel, waiting.

"I think it's time we…" he thought of his next words carefully, "made an example of him for the new Demons in our midst. Don't you think so, Doc?"

"How long?" Doc asked instead of answering.

Azazel just smiled. "I want him broken," he said. "I want complete submission from him. Meg's been looking for a new pet. I think it's about time we give her one."

Doc nodded, accepting the order. There was business to attend to before he could get started; he was going to be… _indisposed_ for a while.

A small smile plagued Azazel's lips as he thought about the days to come. He even thought that he might sit in on a session or two. His strength wasn't what it used to be, but there was no doubt that it would be a nice change of pace. Azazel went back into his room, leaving Doc to handle the unruly Demon.

"Grunt," Doc called to one of the Demons in the cage. "I want you to handle rations for the next three days. If there are any problems that require my assistance, I want you, and only you, to interrupt me. You better make damn well sure it's important enough before you get my attention, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Grunt said.

Castiel was surprised yet again by Doc's abrupt shift. Where he once had an empathetic face and healer's hands that worked kindly to care for the Demons in his charge, he changed into the craftily smiling sadist Uriel had warned him about. It was disconcerting to say the least.

"Seconds, minutes, hours," Doc commanded the three Demons just outside his office. All three of them nodded in unison. The short one began tapping repetitively against the wall and Castiel understood immediately what Doc's command had meant. Doc looked up at Castiel then, sadness and guilt plain in his features. "You may want to close up that hatch. The screaming can get pretty loud."

The short woman had tapped only twenty-six times before the first real scream was heard. If Castiel had thought the earlier yelling had been loud, he was mistaken. The screams Doc wrenched from the Demon in his office were inhuman. Castiel didn't even wait for the second Demon to signal the minute mark. He closed the hatch quickly and fumbled with the CD player.

Music drifted from the headphones, blocking out the noise around him, but the screams kept sounding in his head and he couldn't keep from seeing the look of self-loathing Doc had given him. Every time he closed his eyes, it was there.

Even after an entire week had passed, Castiel still couldn't remove the pit from inside his stomach. He'd had no qualms with the Angels' agenda. Even after he'd seen the decrepit state of their prisoners' cells, he felt nothing but an innate sense of justice. Doc, though, was the one man Castiel believed to be _righteous_. Castiel could see the pleasure the man took in torturing the Demon on the rack, but he could also see the guilt and pain etched into Doc's every feature and the happiness that overcame it whenever he put his knowledge to good use, helping the others.

Had Doc not existed, Castiel would be content to obey orders and keep the prisoners while Uriel was away. But with the man slowly rotting away in Perdition when his only true crime had been to survive, Castiel could not stand by and let the man walk down a path of self-destruction. Sometimes help requires kindness and Doc needed some kindness in his life.

This time, when Castiel opened the hatch and peered into the abyss, he had a plan.


	17. Your Only Chance

The Demons were getting used to the Angel visiting them. He never spoke, but his presence barely caused a stir among them anymore. Dean was starting to enjoy having the Angel around while he did his work. Though he was a Demon, it felt good to have someone watch over him. True, the Angel wouldn't step in should anything happen to him, but with no one to watch Dean's back, he liked to pretend that that was what he was doing.

When the ceiling opened again, Dean was surprised to hear a deep, even voice coming from above. Despite the obvious command in the words, the tone was gentle. Dean could easily picture the man as an Angel with a voice like that. "All Demons return to your cages," he said.

The Demons looked up in shock. It was the first time any Angel had ever spoken to them. When they stood frozen instead of hastening to obey, Dean took the command upon himself.

"Cages," Dean ordered loudly, voice much harder than the Angel's had been

This time, all of the Demons scrambled eagerly into their cages.

Dean turned to step back into his office, intent obeying the order as well. He thought about sterilizing his tools after his previous session with Coda when the Angel continued, "Except you, Doc."

Dean, standing just outside his doorway, turned around to face the Angel. He creased his eyebrows in confusion, but he waited for further instructions. As far as he was concerned, the Angels had more of a claim on him than even Azazel. They provided food and shelter, gave him everything he needed to live, and they asked nothing of him in return. In his mind, that made them his masters. Azazel led the Demons in The Pit, but everything they did, they were allowed to do because of the Angels.

"Answer me," the Angel commanded. "Do you enjoy it? The torture?"

Dean thought about lying, but decided on the truth. "Yes," he admitted.

The Angel nodded as if he'd expected that answer. "The others claim that you are a psychopath, yet you care for the others. Why?"

"I'm not a psychopath," Dean said, offended.

"I know."

Dean was surprised yet again by the Angel above him.

"Why do you help them?" the Angel asked. "You have no need to. Your status allows you to hoard food and medicine. There is enough to keep you healthy. Instead, you ration the food, leaving little for yourself, and you treat the wounded. I want to know why."

"_Because_ I enjoy it," he said, ashamed. "I'm not Alistair or Meg. I don't want to hurt people, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't make everything better when I have someone under my knife."

He stared steadfastly at the Angel, his gaze hard and unrelenting. The Angel was startled at the intensity of it.

"Nothing I do can make up for what I've done, but if I can help a few people on my way down, I will."

The Angel nodded and disappeared into the room beyond the hatch.

The conversation, though short, shook Dean to his core. He thought about his downward spiral often how, though the room around him was a good imitation, the real Hell would welcome him with open arms. He didn't just want to help the Demons, he _needed_ to. He needed to do something good while he still had the chance, even if his good deeds were marred by the joy he took in causing them pain.

The Angel returned a few seconds later, a small smile on his face before a rope ladder was lowered into The Pit.

Dean heard a few of the Demons gasp in front of him. He didn't see the look of shock on all of their faces because his eyes stayed firmly on the Angel, looking for any sort of deception. He had learned a long time ago that hope was a wasted effort. Even with the ladder swinging gently within arms reach, he didn't allow himself to hope for freedom. If he got out, then he would relish in the opportunity he had been given. If not, he would do as he had planned before and sterilize his tools before continuing on Coda again. The Demon had proven tough to break, if only because Dean had to be careful not to give any permanent damage. Meg wanted a pet. It would only force him to begin again on another Demon if he damaged the one currently on his rack.

"This is your only chance," the Angel said when it looked like Dean was going to stay.

In all actuality, Dean _wasn't_ sure. He deserved worse than Hell for what he'd done. If he was anything but selfish, he would stay in The Pit where he could spend his days helping the Demons instead of outside in the world, staining it with his tainted mind. But Dean was a selfish person. He took one last look at the Demons, then climbed out of The Pit without another look backward despite the loud howls coming from the cages.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Castiel turned his back while Doc changed into the clothes he provided. The Demon—_man_, he corrected himself—had still been wearing the clothes he'd been taken in. His black slacks were coated in muck and blood. His previously white button-up was in even worse condition. There was no way Castiel could take Doc away from the church without arousing suspicion if he looked like a serial killer. It was one of the things Castiel had thought about when he began planning Doc's rescue. The man was thin enough that Castiel just brought a set of his own clothes: a black t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and underwear. He had no way of knowing the man's shoe size, so he settled on socks until they could get to a store.

Doc finished changing quickly and tapped on Castiel's shoulder, causing him to jump. He wasn't scared of Doc, but his nerves were in hyper drive and he was wound too tightly for comfort.

"Sorry," Doc said.

Castiel smiled at the man. "It's alright. I'm just a bit nervous. Follow me."

He led Doc outside, happy to see the small smile the man had on his face as he looked up into the moonlight. Castiel thought that leaving at night would give them the best chance and he was right. It was just after midnight and he didn't see a soul in sight. They walked straight to Castiel's car and he told Doc to lay down in the back and sleep. There was a long way to go before they could stop for anything besides gas. They needed to get out of the state as soon as possible. Angels would be on their trail within the next few hours when Castiel was to be relieved by Uriel. He didn't want to waste time covering his tracks. They would know what he had done regardless of any precautions he took. For now, the best course of action was to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Angels.

Dean fell asleep before Castiel hit the freeway.

He woke when they stopped for gas eight hours later. Castiel was nowhere in sight and Doc saw his opportunity. Quietly, so as not to alert anyone nearby, Dean opened the car door and slipped past the attendant. The area around him was heavily wooded and he knew that once he was past the tree line, he could outrun any pursuer. There would be time later to get to a hospital. Dean knew that he was malnourished and sleep deprived and finding a hospital should be his top priority after escaping from the Angel.

It could be a test, Dean realized, or it could be a trick, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to run freely through the woods. He was seriously in danger of hoping, he realized, but he couldn't bring himself to care about stifling the feeling this time. It had been so long since he'd had hope for anything that he allowed himself to feel it for the first time he could remember. It felt good—great, even—but it put him on edge. As he ran through the trees, relishing in the feeling of the small branches and shrubs scratching against his skin, he was jittery and nervous at the thought that it could all be snatched away from him.

When Castiel returned to the car, food and drinks in hand, he was despaired to see that the car was empty. Doc had disappeared.


	18. Alive

The years that stretched so slowly for Dean, passed quickly for the BAU. The cases came to them non-stop and they were swamped with serial killers and paperwork. Being one member down didn't put them at their best, but they made due and saved a few people while doing it. The Hankel case was the worst. All of them, even Reid, knew that Dean would have been able to pinpoint Tobias's location just from the information they'd gathered from the video. After figuring it all out, it was painfully obvious to everyone on the team all the little clues that Tobias had dropped during his communiqués. It had taken too long and they were worn out in a painfully short time.

The hardest thing for them had been the fact that none of them still thought about Dean in the present tense. They knew that he was dead. There was no real reason for the Unsub to keep Dean alive after they got what they wanted and there was no doubt in their minds that Dean had broken. They'd seen Estevez's body. None of them would be able to say no for long with someone of that skill level holding the knife.

That isn't to say they gave up on him completely, but it was obvious to them that they were looking for a body and not a man. They were fueled by vengeance and justice, the lines blurring together until none of them knew where one ended and the other began and then the emotion flitted away, leaving them with a sense of duty and obligation to their long lost friend. They wanted the bastards rotting behind bars and their friend buried honorably in the ground.

The whole team felt the loss of Dean Winchester. Four years had passed since they'd witnesses his abduction and the amount of hope they had at finding him alive was small, barely a blip in the radar. It became increasingly difficult to remain optimistic, but the healing process kicked in gradually. Hotch called his son more often. Morgan made the effort to socialize more with the team. Garcia started humming Metallica. JJ set up a small memorial for Dean in her office. Prentiss reached out to Sam, trying to help him through the loss of his brother.

Reid didn't want to begin the healing process. He wanted to just forget everything like he never seemed to be able to. He could hear Dean's voice over and over yelling "get the hell off of me!" and it wouldn't go away. If it weren't for JJ's constant presence and the recent birth of his godson, he didn't know if he'd be able to handle it this year.

Reid looked up from the case file in his hands to see Garcia bolting to Hotch's office. Less than a minute later, Hotch exited and walked toward the elevators saying "Conference room, five minutes," before he was gone.

Rossi and Prentiss exchanged confused looks before shrugging and turning back to finish their reports. They would see what all the hype was soon enough. For now, though, they all had their reports to finish up. Bureaucracy in the FBI was something they were all familiar with and they all knew that inaccurate reports could bring the house down on their heads. Five minutes was plenty of time to finish what they were in the middle of before they had to be whisked away to some unknown town to stop someone who needed stopping.

The team made their way to the office a few minutes later and waited for Hotch to arrive before JJ could brief them on whatever case they'd been called in on. They were surprised when it wasn't JJ, but Garcia who stood in front of the group to speak.

"Ten minutes ago," she said anxiously. The entire team was on alert. "My computer received an alert that a police station in Nampa, Idaho ran a set of fingerprints that I had flagged years ago." She smiled a watery smile at them, obvious relief in her voice when she told them, "It's Dean. They found him."

The expressions on the team's faces differed dramatically. From Reid's surprise to Morgan's melancholy to Rossi's curiosity, they all had a different reaction to the news.

"Is he –is he alive?" Prentiss asked.

Garcia nodded severely, smiling at her. "They ran his prints when they arrived at the hospital and his picture was taken. They sent it over. It's him. His hair is longer and he's thinner, but it's him and he's alive."

"Hospital?" Morgan asked.

Hotch spoke up then. "Dean walked into the emergency room at a hospital yesterday afternoon. One of the staff decided to call the police after seeing poorly treated wounds on his upper torso and ligature marks around his wrists. When the authorities arrived, they posted two men outside his hospital room while they ran his prints. According to the detective in charge of the case, Dean hadn't spoken a word to them while they had him."

"_Had_ him?" Reid asked, eyebrows going wide. "As in they don't anymore?"

Hotch shook his head. "He slipped past them an hour before Garcia got word of it. Police are scouring the neighborhood for him, but as far as we know, he hasn't been sighted."


	19. Going Home

Dean wandered through the streets of yet another unknown city. It had taken him weeks to hitchhike this far east. Thanks to a few handouts from the dozen or so drivers who'd picked him up, Dean had a decent amount of money. His first stop near an outlet mall gave him the opportunity he needed to buy a good, but inexpensive, pair of boots. He also bought a small backpack, rations, and a good hunting knife in case he ran into any real trouble. Even out of The Pit, Dean felt better with a knife nearby.

While he was making his purchases, he caught sight of a map of the USA and added it to the pile. He hadn't been going anywhere in particular, but something inside him pointed East. There was something out there that he needed to find. It was more than a nagging though, it was a compulsion. He _needed_ to get to Virginia. Something was waiting for him there. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it was good.

One week passed, then two, while he alternatively walked and hitchhiked. When he needed to, he rested either at one of the many rest stops he passed and often procured his rides from or in the small expanses of trees that seemed to always border the main highways.

Dean was tired of getting rides from strangers. They offered him food often, and most gave a little money to hold him. It was nice to have the company and the freedom it offered, but by the third week, Dean was becoming irritated with just how long it was taking to reach his destination. While before, he'd been content to merely wander, now that he had a goal, things were different. He felt anxious and wanted to be there as fast as possible.

In a secret pocket in his bag sat just over six-hundred dollars. It would be more than enough for gas to drive himself if he only had a car. Once the thought had planted itself in his head, it refused to be uprooted. When Dean reached the Illinois/Indiana border, he hotwired a car, silently apologizing to whoever it belonged to and continued on his way to Virginia.

He stopped to replenish his rations only once on the three day trip. He was forced to refill the tank multiple times, but the car he'd stolen got good enough gas mileage that the cost barely made a dent in his cache. When he needed to rest—which was more often than he would have liked since he could only sleep comfortably for a few hours at a time—he would pull over to the side of the road or into a parking lot or up to a rest stop to do so. Unless he was getting gas or food, Dean didn't leave the car.

Never in his time in The Pit had he imagined that the world was so _big_. In retrospect, he realized that there were billions of people and thousands of square miles of land on the planet. He just wasn't prepared for the _vastness_ of it. It was infinite. After being in such an enclosed space for such long a long time, Dean was surprised to realize that there was such a thing as too much freedom.

He lost himself in the twists and turns of the road, coming out of his trance only to certify that he was indeed on the correct freeway or highway or road before delving back into his head, letting instinct take the lead.

Before long, Dean pulled up to the front of a large building in Quantico, Virginia. He had reached the state earlier that day, but his body urged him forward, excitement taking the place of his nervousness as the streets around him began to look vaguely familiar. It was as if he had taken the same route before and it was ingrained in his limbs so thoroughly that he couldn't take another route.

The building was large, though a far cry from the size of the buildings surrounding it. The height was intimidating, but Dean knew that once inside, the walls would wrap around him like old friends. It just felt _right_ somehow for him to be there.

Dean walked into the complex and jogged up the stairs to the fourth floor to the loft. It _was_ a loft, he realized. And it was more than that. It was _his_ loft. Dean didn't own anything. The clothes on his back belonged to the Angel Castiel. The car he used was a stranger's. The money in his bag belonged to the people who had given it to him and everything he'd bought since then was theirs by default. The loft, though. That was _his_. He knew it just like he'd known where to go. It was the same way he'd known how to hotwire a car and the way he'd known how to make small talk with drivers and lie seamlessly to them about his unknown past. The same way he knew that there was a spare key taped below the fire extinguisher case. He didn't understand how he knew these things and he didn't care. The important thing was that he did know them.

He grabbed the key and unlocked the door.

Dean didn't know what to expect by walking into the loft—his home. If he thought there would be a flood of memories and answers to his questions, he was sadly mistaken. Instead, he was plagued by a case of intense déjà vu. Everything was simultaneously familiar and foreign to him.

He stood in the center of the living room for a long time and closed his eyes, trying to remember everything he could about the loft. The door to his right led to a bathroom, the one directly by the front door was a coat closet that he never used. The wall to his left was actually a partition and on the other side was his bedroom. There wasn't much in that room—a bed and a dresser. He didn't even own a TV.

When he opened his eyes again, everything was wrong.

The bookshelf that should have been ahead of him was to his right instead and in its old place was a small entertainment center with a television on it. He had cable now judging from the box below it. There were weird books he didn't own and magazines he didn't like or subscribe to sitting on his coffee table. Dean walked into his bedroom and felt that same familiarity. It was all the same, even the navy blue comforter and the gag portrait of dogs playing poker.

At the sight of the bed, Dean was exhausted. It had been going on forty-six hours since he'd last slept and he couldn't imagine anything more appealing to him than the bed was at that moment. Dean rechecked the lock on the front door and windows just to be safe. He took off his boots and socks. He put his knife safely beneath his pillow before stretching out on the unimaginably soft mattress. Dean was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	20. Intruder

Dean woke the second someone entered the apartment.

At first, he contemplated getting out of bed and quickly attacking the intruder, but for some reason, a part of him was still chained to the comfort of the bed and he didn't want it to disappear. If he was going to die, he figured, then they could kill him in that bed. He couldn't think of a better way to go. So he willed his body into relaxation even as he reached up with his right hand to grab the hilt of the large hunting knife. Just because he didn't want to leave didn't mean he was just going to roll over and die.

Dean listened as the intruder strode through the kitchen, the clink of plates and classes loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. It went on for a while, the intruder comfortable enough to make himself a meal in Dean's kitchen. Dean's stomach growled loudly and he realized that he hadn't eaten in a while. In The Pit, he was used to going without food, but since he'd been out he'd gotten used to the constant meals. The hunger warred with his exhaustion and, with the smell of food drifting into the bedroom, hunger won.

Holding tightly to the knife, Dean slunk out of bed, careful to make as little noise as possible. He crept to the doorway wanting to see the intruder before he made his move. A man stood in his kitchen, back to the doorway Dean was in, stirring something on the stove. He was tall, taller than Dean that was for sure, though Dean usually towered over other people. His hair was long, too long in Dean's opinion. Long hair was hazardous. It gave others something to hold onto in a fight and it held dirt like nobody's business. It was much better to keep it cropped short.

Dean moved silently through the living room, pausing briefly every few feet, hiding behind pieces of furniture to watch the tall man make food. It interested Dean that the stove was being used. He was sure he'd never touched the thing before, which was weird enough itself as he'd never been in the apartment before. Dean shook himself out of those thoughts. The only thing he needed to worry about was taking down the man in front of him.

A shrill sound echoed throughout the apartment and Dean clenched his ears even as he darted behind the couch for cover. The sound quieted with a small beep and a "Hello?" from the intruder.

Dean was sure he'd been spotted as the man could only be speaking to him, but then the conversation continued as if someone had answered."

"Oh, hey Prentiss… Just making dinner… Yeah, um, sounds good… You guys make any headway with finding my brother? … No, nothing here. I've been looking over the maps in the area, trying to pinpoint him, but unless I know where he's going, it's nearly impossible… Uh-huh…" And the conversation continued.

Dean adjusted himself so he was crouched low behind the couch, still out of the man's view should he turn around, and flipped the blade around so it was angled parallel to his arm. He stood slowly, coming out from his hiding spot, just three yards away from the kitchen and another two from the man. There was nothing to hide behind from here on out. It was go-time.

He made it two steps before he floor creaked. The tall man turned around in surprise, one hand holding a device to his ear, the other holding a spatula.

"Holy shit," the man said. "Dean?"

Dean stood, shocked still.

"Is it really you?"

Limbs no longer frozen, Dean bounded the last three steps, bringing the knife down to stab into the man's chest.

The man was quick, much quicker than Dean had anticipated he would be, and with two quick blows, the knife flew from his hand. Dean skipped out of reach as the man tried to grab him. He latched onto one of the long-reaching arms and used it to flip the man onto the floor. The man struggled as Dean tried to get enough leverage on his shoulder to keep him down. It was difficult, but Dean was persistent. Starving in The Pit, he had to be or he wouldn't have lasted. He may be weak, but he knew enough and was desperate enough to make every blow count, to fight for all he was worth. Most people held back, even angry, but Dean never did. If the person he was fighting died, then so be it. If only one person walked away from the altercation, it would be him every time. So the man never really stood a chance.

Once he was pinned properly, Dean aimed a well-placed punch to the back of the man's head. Once, he struck. Twice. The third finally knocked the man unconscious. Dean checked the man's pulse. He was still alive. That was good. This man knew who he was. Dean had questions, lots of questions. And he would get his answers one way or another.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Sam Winchester woke to a torrent of cold water. He was awake instantly, sputtering slightly from the water that poured over his face and into his mouth. He opened his eyes they instantly latched on to his brother's moving form.

When he'd heard the creak of the floorboards and turned to see Dean standing there, he thought he had been hallucinating. Over the last few weeks, he'd been seeing things. Out of the corner of his eye, he would catch a glimpse of Jessica who had died two years ago or his father who was still locked up at the facility in Montana—he'd checked. They were just glimpses really, flashes of people that couldn't possibly be there. Sam knew that. But with the drugs and lack of sleep and the fact that he was working himself to the bone, it was only a matter of time before he snapped like his old man. He had a genetic predisposition to it. It would have happened eventually.

Seeing his brother, he was sure that it had finally happened. When he said his brother's name, Dean's demeanor had changed completely and Sam could see just how different the man in front of him was from the brother he knew. Gone was the playful smirk that was always plastered to his face. His eyes were hard, angry like only John's eyes could be. Well, he'd thought so anyway. Dean's eyes shifted, paranoid, left and right, always going back to Sam to make sure he hadn't moved.

These were just the behavioral changes.

Physically? Dean looked like he'd been to Hell and back. His cheeks were sunken in and a long scar trailed from temple to chin. He was too thin and his movements were too jerky. His lips were cracking and a myriad of smaller cuts, scrapes, and scars trailed down his arms. His hair had been hacked off haphazardly and was much longer than Dean ever liked it to get.

"Dean?" Sam tried to say, but something kept the sound from coming out. Belatedly, he realized he'd been gagged. His _brother_ had gagged him. Something definitely wasn't right about this.

"Didn't mean to take you down so hard," his brother said.

Sam recognized the change in the man. Gone were his shifty eyes and tense stance. Now, he was confident. It was still nothing like the arrogance his brother usually displayed, but from the relaxed set of Dean's shoulders and the strong, clear way he spoke, he was definitely more comfortable with Sam tied down as he was. Sam looked down at his wrists and ankles, bound to the computer desk chair, wondering where Dean had found the duct tape. He couldn't remember keeping any in the house.

"You're going to be sporting a hefty bruise on your shoulder for a while and it might hurt to move it so take it easy, alright?"

Dean's compassion confused Sam. Only a few minutes ago, Dean had attacked him, knife in hand. Now he was worried he'd hurt the man? It didn't make any sense.

"You also might have a mild concussion, but it'll go away in a couple of days. I'm going to take the gag out of your mouth. I'm only going to say this once: do not scream or yell. Trust me, you won't like the consequences."

Dean's smile then was as cold-blooded as they come. If Sam had had any doubts that Dean would really hurt him, they were erased with that smile.

"Don't worry, kid," he said at Sam's panicked expression. "I won't hurt you unless you give me a good reason."

Dean slipped the knife into his waistband and untied the gag from behind Sam's head. Sam spit the rolled up sock he had stuffed in his mouth onto the floor and moved his jaw around, trying to loosen it back up.

"There you go," Dean soothed. "That's better. Now." Dean stepped back and leaned against the counter. "I have some questions for you and I'd like some answers."

"De—" Sam began, but he was cut off by the blade that suddenly appeared in Dean's hand.

"Nuh-uh-uh." Dean shook his head. "No speaking unless you're answering my questions. Understand?"

Dean's eyes flashed dangerously and Sam nodded. "Yes," he said.

"That's the ticket." His smile was more genuine this time, but it still put Sam on edge. "First question. What are you doing in my apartment?"

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Emily Prentiss was the last to exit the SUV in the FBI parking lot. They'd spent two weeks in Idaho looking for Dean before they were called back to Virginia—Woodbridge this time—on a kidnapping case. It was messy, but it was quick. Now that they were in Quantico, the team was back in 'Save Dean Winchester' mode. It was all they'd talked about on the ride home and if anyone was to find him, it would be Sam. They'd all agreed on it.

Prentiss pulled out her cell phone and dialed Sam's number. She pushed the button for the elevator.

He answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sam," she said, smiling.

"Oh, hey Prentiss."

"Are you busy tonight?" she asked as she, Reid, and Morgan entered the elevator and pushed the button for her floor. They'd been the first to arrive since Morgan drove like a maniac.

"Just making dinner," Sam said distractedly. She could faintly hear the sound of something frying in the background.

"Well, the team's going to get together tonight if you want to join us."

He hesitated. "Yeah," he said. "Um, sounds good."

"You don't have to if you don't want to, Sam. I know it's tough—"

He cut her off, "You guys make any headway with finding my brother?"

Prentiss sighed internally, but she knew not to push him. If it was hard on the team over the last few years, it must have been even worst for Sam. They were brothers after all, and their relationship had bordered on dangerously codependent until Dean joined the team in Quantico. Even then, they'd kept in constant contact, making sure the other was alright. "We're doing everything we can to find him, but he's under the radar. Anything on your end? Has he tried to contact you?" It was the first thing they thought Dean would do, even before he called the team or went to the police.

"No, nothing here," Sam told her. "I've been looking over the maps in the area, trying to pinpoint him, but unless I know where he's going, it's nearly impossible."

"Well, we have Reid working on it and you know how great that kid is with maps."

"Uh-huh."

Prentiss could hear the smile in his voice and counted it as a win. The elevator arrived and she walked to her desk, plopping her purse on the back of her chair and sitting in her seat. If she was honest with herself, she would admit that she was exhausted. The case had been a tough one and she hadn't gotten much sleep looking for Dean before that. None of them had.

"Like I said, Sam," she told him seriously. "We aren't giving up on him—especially not now that we have proof that he's alive and out there. And trust me when I tell you—"

"Holy shit," Sam gasped suddenly horrified. He was panting into the phone, nearly hyperventilating.

Prentiss sat straight up in her chair. She could feel Morgan and Reid staring at her. "Sam? Are you alright? What's going on?" Hotch and the other members of the team decided that that was the moment to walk into the bullpen.

Hotch took one look at her face and was on her. "Prentiss?" he asked. She didn't look up. He turned to Morgan. "What happened?"

She could hear them speaking quietly in the background, but she focused on the phone.

"Sam. Hello? Sam. Tell me what's going on."

"Dean?" she heard him ask.

"Dean's there?" Prentiss asked.

"Is it really you?" There was a short pause. Then she heard a yell and a loud grunt before the line went dead.

"We need to get to Sam's house, now," Prentiss told the others. "I think Dean's there and they might be in trouble."

"Might be?" Morgan asked.

"I don't know," she said, grabbing her jacket. "We were talking when Sam was surprised by someone he thought might have been Dean. It sounded like it erupted into a fight before the line went dead. I really think Sam's in trouble."

"Dean's a great fighter," Morgan said. "And Sam is no slouch. If someone took him down, they had to have some serious skills."

"You think it's really is Dean?" Reid asked.

Prentiss hesitated before she answered. "I don't know, but it's a definite possibility. Hotch?"

Hotch nodded. "I think Prentiss is right," he told the team. "We should get over there right away. Have Garcia send the address to our phones," he told Morgan.

"No need," Prentiss said. "I know where he lives. I'm driving." She snatched the keys straight from Morgan's hand.

Fifteen minutes later, they stood outside of Dean's old—Sam's new—apartment complex.

"Morgan, JJ," Hotch said. "I want you at the back door. Reid, Rossi, I want you here in front. "Prentiss, you're with me." They went their separate ways, ready for anything.

Hotch tightened the bulletproof vest on his chest and followed Prentiss up to the top floor. He let her take point.

Hotch was about to knock, but Prentiss stopped him. She held up a key. "He gave it to me after Dean went missing," she explained. "Said I could come by anytime."

She turned the key into the lock and opened the door. "Sam?" she called. "It's Prentiss."

The two FBI agents walked into the apartment, startled to find a tied up Sam with Dean just a pace behind, holding a knife to the younger man's neck. Dean's eyes were hard and angry, though his face remained deceptively calm

Both Prentiss and Hotch unholstered their weapons and aimed them at their old teammate.

"Drop the knife, Dean," Prentiss said slowly.

Dean's eyes shifted back and forth between her and Hotch, but the knife at Sam's throat remained steady. There was no doubt in either agent's mind that Dean would slice before they could get a shot off. There was no recognition in his eyes, no knowledge of who they were or that the man in the chair was the brother he'd raised from infancy. This wasn't _Dean_ anymore.

"Put the knife down," she said. "We can talk about this."

Her words didn't seem to have any effect on the man. "No need to talk to you," he said. "This man has some information for me and I'm going to get it one way or another. You're welcome to watch if you'd like." His smile was frightening.

"We know everything he knows," Prentiss told him. "Ask whatever questions you want and we'll answer every one of them."

Dean seemed to consider it for a moment, but when he answered, Prentiss was sure they would be forced to shoot. "No. You're great liars, I can tell. I mean Sammy here is a good liar also, but it won't take much before he's singing. You, on the other hand, are hard as cement and I don't want to wait."

"You don't have to do this," Prentiss said. "You have other options."

Dean just smiled.

"Drop the knife," Hotch said, raising his voice slightly. "Step away from the man."

Dean flinched slightly, but he dropped the knife immediately. He took two large steps backward and angled his head toward the floor, even though his eyes stayed planted on Hotch. Every muscle in his body was taut, but he didn't move.

It was the voice that had done it. It was calm and steady like Prentiss's, but it was more than that. The undertone was firm and demanding, promising bad things if he didn't listen. It was Alistair's voice, even if it wasn't his body, and Dean knew better than to disobey.

"On your knees," Prentiss said.

Dean glanced at her, but when he saw that she had no intention to make a move toward him, he looked back at Hotch.

"On your knees," Hotch ordered.

He hadn't even finished the sentence before Dean was on the floor. A small tremble racked his frame, but again Dean stayed absolutely still.

Prentiss untied Sam from the chair, careful with his tightly bound wrists. They had been tied so securely that he would in pain for a while until the blood returned to them. His ankles had been tied down similarly, but not as tight. There was a single cut along his chest, but it wasn't deep enough to need stitches. Some Neosporin and a Band-Aid and he would be fine.

"Sam?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Just… yeah. Is Dean okay?" he asked, looking over his shoulder just in time to watch Hotch handcuff his brother.

"He's fine," Prentiss answered. "We're going to take him back to the office."

Hotch led Dean downstairs while Prentiss called the team to tell them to hightail it back to the office and that they would explain everything there. Sam trailed behind him, but he was lost in his thoughts. The man in front of him wasn't his brother anymore. Sam didn't know who the man was, but he wasn't Dean. Dean would never have tied him to a chair. Dean would have died rather than hurt Sam. Dean would have known who he was.

That was what hurt him the most, that Dean didn't recognize him. He was the only person Sam had in his life who cared for him. It had been easier when he thought Dean was dead. At least then he could have pretended that Dean died caring about him. This was so much worse because here Dean was, alive and safe, but he didn't know Sammy. He didn't know the brother he'd raised and cared for since they were little. Dean was gone and in his body was a monster.


	21. BAU HOTCH

Dean paced the room. It was small and grey with a large mirror that he knew others could see him through. The metal table and chair were sitting untouched in the middle of the room. It all reminded him of The Pit. The familiarity of it would have been comforting had it not been for the blazing light above him, casting the shadows away. He wished to hell that the light would go out so his migraine would steady to a dull throb instead of the sharp pangs it was now. Unfortunately for him, the light stayed on.

He didn't know how long they left him there, but he knew that it would be a while before they came—if they came. It was all too likely that they knew where he had escaped from and would decide not to throw him back in The Pit after all, but to just let him slowly waste away in his new prison. The thought that no one was out there watching and that he was all alone, left to die… soothed him. If no one cared, that meant he wouldn't be given another session. Even after Alistair, Azazel sometimes put him on the rack when he didn't follow the rules. Alistair knew a lot of things, but it was obvious to Dean that Azazel had just as many skills, even if they were different.

Dean sat in the chair and laid his head on the table to rest. He was tired again. He'd been woken from his too short nap after the too long drive. The cold metal, so much like the cold concrete floor, comforted him. He was asleep in seconds.

From behind the two-way mirror, Hotch, Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Reid watched Dean sleep. JJ was taking Sam's statement far away from Dean. It wouldn't do the young man any good to see his brother after his ordeal.

"He's exhausted," Rossi observed.

"I wonder how long it's been since he slept," Prentiss mused.

"Judging from the shade of his eyes," Reid answered, "it's been weeks since he's gotten a good nights sleep, at least. He's probably been awake for days."

"What happened up there, Hotch?" Morgan asked.

"When we entered the apartment," Hotch began, "we saw Sam tied to a chair. Dean held a knife to his throat. Prentiss tried to get him to stand down, but Dean didn't listen. I could see it in his eyes, he was ready to kill him."

"Why didn't he?" Rossi asked.

Prentiss answered. "He didn't listen to me, but as soon as Hotch told him to drop the knife, he dropped it. It was weird. He looked scared, but it was like he was trying not to show it."

"Sometimes, in cases with long-term abuse victims," Reid began, "the victim will transfer their subservience onto another person. They will submit themselves to him as if he was his master."

"Why Hotch?" Prentiss asked. "Why not me or Sam?"

"These victims tend to select a new master that closely resemble their previous one. It's likely that his previous abuser was a male so he could have seen you as unthreatening or weak. More likely, Dean latched onto Hotch because of his personality type. If his abuser had a similar demeanor to Hotch, Dean probably picked up on it and sought to obey his commands as he would his abuser's."

"This is so messed up, kid," Morgan said, looking at Dean's sleeping form. His heart really went out to the man.

"I have to agree with Morgan here," Prentiss said. "I think we're in over our heads with this. I mean, you saw him, Hotch. He didn't have any idea who we were. He had no clue that the man he'd tied to a chair was his brother. He's been through a severe trauma. I'm not sure there's a lot we can do to help him by ourselves. We need a specialist here or at least someone who has some in-depth experience with severe trauma patients."

"I don't know," Rossi said. "You're his friends. You should be able to do _something_ to help him at least. If there's anyone he'll remember, it would be Sam, but Reid here is probably the next best thing. I think we should send him in."

No one asked why they shouldn't send Sam in to see his brother. They all realized that it wouldn't go very well to have them in the same room for the time being.

"Me?" Reid croaked. "Why me? He had more of an attachment to Morgan than any of us. They were best friends. If anyone could bond with Dean, it would be him."

"Sure, kid, we were friends," Morgan said, "best friends even, but I think Rossi's right. Dean took you under his wing, even took a few swings at that guy who was hassling you at that bar, remember?"

Reid smiled at the memory. Dean had gotten into a lot of trouble over that, but he just flung his arm protectively over Reid's shoulders and told him it was no big deal.

Morgan continued. "Sam stayed in Nebraska when Dean was transferred to Quantico. Dean came to you like a moth to a flame. You became a surrogate for the little brother he left behind. If anyone can get through that thick head of his, it's you, kid."

Reid sighed. Morgan was right. "What about Hotch?" he asked. "He seemed to respond to him in the loft."

Hotch shook his head. "You were right when you said he was transferring his dependency onto me. I don't want to feed into his dominant/submissive viewpoint unless absolutely necessary. All it will do is reinforce his conditioning. If we go down that path, he might not be able to come back from it."

Their conversation was interrupted by loud moans coming from the interrogation room. Dean's arms went taught at his sides, hanging straight down while his head rested on the table, but other than clenching his fists, he didn't move them. He gasped in shock and his eyes flew open. He looked uncomprehendingly around the room he was in, wondering at the difference in setting from wherever else he'd been held. When he remembered how he'd gotten there, he relaxed even as his mouth turned down into a frown.

"It's now or never, Reid," Prentiss said.

Reid opened the door and entered the room. Dean watched him the entire time. The initial look of terror that showed briefly on his face when he saw Reid, faded substantially in the short amount of time it took him to sit across from the older man. It was both flattering and insulting that Dean didn't fear him. Dean openly profiled him and Reid knew what he was seeing—someone nonthreatening and trustworthy. It was possibly the complete opposite of Hotch's projected persona. Reid knew the team was right to send him in here.

"Hello," Reid began when Dean didn't start speaking. "Can you tell me your name?"

Dean's eyes narrowed for a moment, still scrutinizing Reid. He seemed to soften at something he saw in the kid's face and his voice was calm and even when he answered. "Call me Doc," he said holding out his hand for Reid to shake.

Reid's surprise showed on his face as he took the offered hand and shook once before pulling away. He knew it was a necessity in establishing a connection with Dean, but he still didn't like shaking hands.

Dean smirked, amused at Reid's reaction. It was as if, all of a sudden, he was the old Dean again. He was thinner and paler and gloomier, but the smirk was one hundred percent _Dean_. It gave Reid hope.

Reid smiled back. "I'm a doctor, too," he said. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid, part of the BAU and I'd—"

Dean's eyes narrowed and focused on Spencer's face, showing instant signs of distrust. There was a threatening air about him that had Reid nearly quaking in his seat. He'd never seen such hostility coming from Dean before. Usually this type of reaction was reserved for some of the more dangerous psychopaths that they interviewed, not Reid's teammate.

"BAU." Dean stated.

"Yes," Reid answered. "The Behavioral Analysis Unit out of Quantico."

"I will ask you this one time," Dean said, eyes boring into Reid's, willing him into submission. "Do you know what a 'hotch' is?"

"Hotch?" Reid asked.

Dean's chin raised threateningly, daring Reid to make him repeat the question.

Reid swallowed, not wanting to see what Dean could do before the team came through the door. "Hotch is my supervisor. Aaron Hotchner," he said.

"Hotch is a person?" Dean asked, verifying the information.

Reid nodded.

Dean sat back in his seat, looking into the mirror behind Reid. "Is he behind the glass?"

"I believe so."

"Good. I will only speak to Aaron Hotchner," Dean said.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," Reid said.

Dean didn't respond. He just set his shoulders and stared significantly at Reid.

"Why don't you tell me why you want to speak to Hotch and I'll see what I can do?" Reid offered.

No response.

A tap came from the window and Reid knew that his time was up. He stood and left the room without a backward glance at Dean who stared straight into the mirror, no signs of the nervous and paranoid man they'd seen in the room before Reid had spoken to him. Something about the team's name had changed Dean and Reid was more than curious to know what it was.

"I don't know if it's a good idea, Hotch," Morgan was saying as Reid entered the viewing room.

"I know, but I believe him when he says he won't talk to anyone other than me. Plus, you can see the shift in his demeanor from the man we brought in. There's a good chance that he won't be compelled to submit to me now."

"Just be careful, Aaron," Rossi said. "No need to spook the kid so tone down the inner alpha."

Hotch nodded and entered the room.

The terror that he'd displayed when meeting Reid was practically nonexistent when Hotch entered the room. Despite his previous submissiveness, Dean showed no signs of his previous passivity. In fact, Hotch was sure that the best way to get the information they needed from Dean was to let him lead the conversation. It wasn't the way he normally played things, but this situation was already strange for Hotch.

"Doc," Hotch greeted. "My name is Aaron Hotchner." He held out his hand and Dean took it, shaking it firmly, but not excessively so.

"FBI?" Dean asked.

"Yes. My team and I work in a part of the FBI known as the Behavioral Analysis Unit or the BAU, but you already knew that."

Dean shook his head, denying his knowledge, but then he nodded slowly. "I do, but not in the way you think," he said matter-of-factly much to Hotch's confusion. "I have something for you," he said, surprising Hotch. "Don't touch." Dean reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small stack of patterned fabric squares. He set them on the table and slid them across to the senior agent in front of him.

Hotch did as the man asked and kept his hands away from the stack. He looked closer at the fabric and he realized what he was looking at. The top piece of cloth, written in what Hotch could only assume was blood were the words "BAU HOTCH." The pieces of cloth beneath the one with his name on it were stained in blood. Hotch could see it just from the side. It was a reddish-brown color that could have been mistaken for desert mud, but Hotch had seen enough dried blood to know the difference. Dean was giving him the other victims.

"They're all dead," Dean said. "Eleven people. I did that in case I ever got out." He looked at Hotch so intently, Hotch was sure he was trying to read his mind. "I _know_ you," Dean said. "But I don't know you. I wrote that on my first day so I wouldn't forget. Or maybe it was in case I forgot."

Hotch understood the convoluted explanation so he nodded. "Thank you."

Dean smiled sadly. "Don't thank me," he said seriously.

"Alright," Hotch said, leaving it alone for now. "Would you mind answering some questions for me, Doc?"

Dean tensed like he had in the loft, muscles going taut, head lowered even though his eyes stayed on his face, and Hotch knew he needed to get out of the room quickly. "Yes, sir," Dean said immediately.

Thankfully, someone in the room behind him also noticed Dean's shift and knocked on the window, keeping him from making up an excuse.

"Pardon me," Hotch said. "I'm going to send Dr. Reid back in here to talk to you, alright?"

Dean nodded.

Hotch exited the room and met up with the team in the viewing room.

"He seems to have a lot of different triggers," Reid noticed. "It's going to be hard to avoid them while we're questioning him."

"What did he give you, Hotch?" Morgan asked.

"You're going to want to take a set of gloves and an evidence bag in with you Reid," Hotch said. "They're pieces of clothing with the victims' DNA on them. Dean was collecting them to give to me."

"He doesn't remember who you are," Rossi said. "But it seems like he was smart enough to know he'd need to write it down."

"I just want to know what happened to him," Prentiss said. "Why did they keep him alive?" she wondered aloud, voicing all of their thoughts.

"I don't know," Hotch said. "But I'm sure it wasn't for anything good."


	22. Not a Nightmare

**WARNING: Graphic depictions of torture. If this isn't your cup of tea, skip to the end for a quick recap.**

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_It hurts and I can't even scream. _

_My throat is dry and scratchy but the pain there is nothing like the sharp feeling of the knife on my back. Alistair chuckles softly and I hate the sound. I don't think I'll ever chuckle again. _

_"So pretty," he says as the blood drips down my back and onto the floor. I can see it through the bedsprings I'm laying on. Alistair always takes the mattress off before one of his sessions. He doesn't want to stain it with my blood. _

_I try to scream again as Alistair's fingers probe the new gash on my back, slipping them inside and play with the soft flesh. The slick of the blood should have made it less painful, but his nails scrape the sensitive recesses of the cut. It hurts beyond compare and another silent scream is dragged from me. It seems like I've been here for days, but it must have only been minutes or hours because this is only the third time he's opened this wound to play in. I thought the first cuts were the worst, but they aren't. It's only after they've healed that they become the most sensitive and when Alistair slices through the now healing mark he'd made on my shoulder, the pain increases tenfold and I wish I could scream again, if only because the sting of my throat would distract me from the sharp burns in my shoulder. _

_He doesn't stop with just the one cut. Alistair slices everywhere, reopening every wound he's given me over the last however long I've been here. _

_"Shhh," he soothes. "It'll all be okay. Just a little while longer and we'll take a break. How's that sound?" he teases. _

_I know he's lying. It isn't the first time he's offered, but I still can't rein in the hope that it'll be true. Alistair only breaks to sleep and I just have to last until he's too tired to keep cutting. _

_"Until then, though," he says softly and another cut is made, lower this time, just above the knees on the inside of my left thigh. The skin is so sensitive there that the cut overshadows every other ache in my body. I just want it all to stop. "Stop," I whisper. "Stop." My breath comes is low pants and sobs. The tears have stopped running, but only because the ducts are incapable of producing enough to spill over. "Please. I'll do it."_

_"What was that?" Alistair stops digging his fingers into the freshly open wound. "I can't hear you."_

_""I'll do it," I whisper as loud as I can. I've never said yes. I promised I wouldn't, but it's just too much. "I'll do it."_

_I can hear the smile in Alistair's voice when he speaks. "Two weeks," he says. "That's much longer than I thought you'd last. Actually, I'm surprised you're still alive."_

_He unstraps my restraints and I can't even put up any resistance. The sharp tingling in my hands and feet as the blood rushes back into them is nothing compared to how every movement sets off the bite of the cuts on my body. They sting like nothing I've ever felt before. Alistair's words come back to me then. It's been two weeks. Just two weeks. It seems like years. _

_Alistair pulls me into a sitting position and the wounds on my upper thighs make me hiss as they brush up against the metal bed frame. I stand up and nearly collapse from blood loss and sheer exhaustion. I force my eyes open, though, thinking of what happened the last time I passed out during a session. The lesson didn't need to be taught twice. Using the wall as a crutch, I pull myself to the door I've imagined myself walking through a hundred thousand times. _

_The Pit is bright compared to the darkness of my room and it stings my eyes. _

_Alistair takes the lead and I follow him to the room just next door. _

_A man sits in the corner of the room, shrinking back into the wall. When he sees me, his entire frame begins shaking in terror. I couldn't imagine looking even close to how I feel, but I must look bad enough. The warm hilt of Alistair's knife is pressed into my palm and I look at it with disgust. This is the same knife that was used on me, the same knife that caused a permanent shiver to run through my bones. It represents everything evil and just the fact that I am holding it makes bile rise in my throat. I am going to be sick. _

_"You know what to do," Alistair says. _

_And I do know. That is the deal. If I want it to stop, all I have to do is use the knife. That's it. _

_"I can't do it." I drop the knife and it clatters to the floor. _

_"That's perfectly alright," Alistair says, purring. His voice is sugary sweet and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. _

_We walk back into my room and I don't struggle as he binds my wrists and ankles again. Alistair doesn't like when I struggle. Sometimes, when the pain is too much, I can't help but buck away from him, trying to avoid the sharp edge of the knife, but that's okay because I can't control it. If I even try to resist as he redoes the straps, it would take much more than I could give to appease him. _

_"I don't like being toyed with," Alistair says. And that's all he says. _

_I watch as Alistair dips the needle of a tiny syringe into a bottle with clear liquid. He pulls out the plunger just a quarter of an inch, barely sucking any of the fluid into the tube. He taps hard on my forearm before sticking the needle perfectly into my vein. The liquid disappears into my body and the worst pain I've ever felt courses through every nerve ending in my body. I can feel it like fire pouring through me. Every inch of my body burns. I didn't think I could scream anymore, but I was wrong. It's hoarse and scratchy, but loud and I scream as long and hard as I can until it's impossible to scream again. _

_With every beat of my heart, the fire begins anew. My body is shaking and jerking and I can't control myself. I hope this is death. There can't be anything worse than this feeling of fire in my veins. The pain is uncontrollable and it's even worse than when Alistair uses fire or the wires because this time its inside and I don't know if I can handle it for much longer. Please just let me die._

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

**RECAP: Dean's flashback: After two weeks of being tortured in The Pit, Dean says yes to Alistair. He belatedly realizes he can't kill a man and Alistair leads him back to his room to begin the session again, though with more... fervor. Dean expresses that he wants to die. End chapter.**


	23. Awake

Dean jumped as a large hand came down on his shoulder, just over the thickest of his scars. Instinctively, he grabbed the hand and used the thumb and forefinger as leverage to pull the long-haired assailant down to the ground. He put his foot to the on the man's shoulder blade, intent on breaking the arm, and was immediately pulled back by someone else in the room. Dean twisted out of his hold and aimed a kick to the man's instep. He seemed to expect it though and suddenly it's an even match between the two men.

Dean dodged a grab and let his fist smack twice quickly into the opening the man left. He turned quickly to the side and shoved himself into the man's chest when he went to protect himself, tossing them both quickly onto the carpeted floor. Dean landed on top of the man. Knees on his arms to keep them from coming up, Dean wrapped his hands around the thick neck of the man, squeezing hard.

"Stop," a hard voice called and Dean recognized the undertone immediately. He rolled off of the man and knelt to the side, head down and eyes up. He didn't know what type of person Hotch was. Alistair always wanted him bowing somehow, getting off on Dean's subservience. Azazel was the opposite. He wanted Dean strong, wanted to look him in the eye. Dean settled for both. He didn't rise in case it would anger Hotch, but he wouldn't look away unless he asked him to. So far, he'd gotten nothing but mixed signals from the man. He knew he was doing something wrong and it wouldn't be long before Hotch decided to correct him. A small shiver crawled down his back in reminiscence of his previous lessons.

"Morgan, are you alright?" Hotch asked.

He coughed once before answering. "Yeah. I'm good. Reid?"

"'M fine," Reid mumbled.

"Reid?" Dean asked. He looked at the young profiler picking himself up off the carpeted floor of the conference room. The tall, thin frame, the long hair, the crooked smile all came back to him. He was Reid, the man who had moved Dean into the room with a carpet and a television and the comfortable chairs. He'd hurt Reid, pulled him right to the ground and would have dislocated his shoulder at the very least if someone hadn't stopped him. He turned to the man—Morgan?—and said earnestly, "Thank you. For, uh, pulling me off of him. I'm sorry," he apologized to the both of them. "I just… I'm sorry."

Dean looked back at Hotch, scared that he might find rage hidden beneath the passive mask. He had, after all, attacked two of the man's teammates and for what? Because Reid touched his shoulder? He should have had more self control than that. He mentally berated himself while Morgan and Reid were led from the room. His eyes never left Hotch who sat down in a chair next to Dean instead of leaving with the other agents. He couldn't hold the man's eyes so he looked at his chin instead. Dean hoped Hotch wouldn't notice.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Hotch motioned to the conference table and Dean immediate planted himself across from Hotch. "Reid's going to take a break," Hotch said. "Would you mind speaking with me?"

Dean nodded. He was grateful to the man for not being angry with him. If anything, the man sounded worried. Hell, he was worried too. He didn't want to hurt the men and he regret everything that happened. If he thought Hotch would trust him, he'd offer to treat them himself. A few minutes and they'd feel ten times better than they had to feel now. "Vinegar and honey," Dean said instead. It was the only way ne knew how to help.

"What?" Hotch asked curiously.

"For Morgan's throat. The vinegar helps with the bruising. Have him dab it on his skin. And honey will help with the burn if he ads it to his coffee or tea. Even taking a straight teaspoonful will coat it."

"Good to know," Hotch said.

Dean was happy that Hotch was back to acting as he had during the last interview. It was easy to talk to him when he was like this. It reminded him of his conversations with Azazel instead of Alistair. They'd had quite a few long talks during his time in The Pit. Most of them he counted as his better days.

"You were having a nightmare," Hotch said. "Would you mind telling me what it was about?"

Dean shook his head.

"It's alright if you don't want to talk about it, but I can't help you if you aren't willing to meet me halfway here."

"I'll tell you," Dean said quickly, not wanting Hotch to think he was disobeying. "But it wasn't a nightmare. Those are different." Worse, he thought, but didn't add.

"If it wasn't a nightmare, what was it?" Hotch asked.

"Just a dream," he lied. "More of a memory, really."

Flashbacks were much easier for him to handle than nightmares. Flashbacks were real, but they were also over. They couldn't hurt him anymore. His nightmares, on the other hand, were horrible in even worse ways. They weren't real, but they _could_ be. His nightmares were the ones where he kidnapped women and tied them down and skinned them, flayed their flesh from her bones while all he while he smiled and laughed and lost himself in the sheer _joy_ of it all. Those were the worst nights. Flashbacks, he could handle.

Dean shrugged. "Wasn't too bad, just something that stuck with me." He looked out of the blinded windows, wishing Morgan and Reid were listening. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Dean turned back to Hotch. "Next time," because there would be a next time, "it might be better not to touch me. Try knocking," he suggested. "That usually pulls me out alright. Just a couple of quick raps on the door and I'm wide awake. At the very least, it will keep everyone out of striking distance." Dean's mouth turned up in a sad approximation of a smile. It was full of guilt and self-hatred.

Hotch was at a loss for words like he'd never been before. Dean had answered every question they asked about the victims, but he'd hedged around his experiences, only referring to the place they'd kept him as 'The Pit.'

Hotch found himself asking. "It was a memory?"

"It was," Dean admitted slowly. "But memories and dreams aren't the same. Most of it was real, but some of it wasn't. Doesn't matter anyway," he waved it off.

"Why not?"

"Because it's over. There might be more days ahead, but the ones in my head aren't real," he answered honestly.

"Do you ever have any dreams that aren't from The Pit?" Hotch asked.

Dean thought about it. "A few," he said. "But I'd rather keep them to myself if you don't mind." It was phrased like a statement, but both of them knew that he was searching Hotch's face for an answer. If Hotch pressed the issue, Dean would talk about it. He would tell Hotch anything he wanted to know.

"That's fine," he said instead. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Prentiss went out and got Chinese food and I'd like to introduce you to the team."

"I could eat," Dean said.

Hotch left for a few minutes and Dean rested his head on the table. His head was killing him and the cold of the building was making all his old aches reappear. It had been too long since he'd changed the bandages across his chest from a tussle he'd gotten into at some bar just two weeks before. The stitches were still in and they needed to be removed, but he hadn't had a chance what with being on the run and all. He'd also left his doses of antibiotics in The Pit. He knew just how easily wounds could become infected.

The team filed into the room and pulled chairs up to the small table. Everyone fit, but just barely. The man who had been in his apartment was there with a woman and a man he didn't recognize—a sleight blonde and an older Italian. When the last person came into the room wearing the brightest yellow dress he'd ever seen, Dean let out a gasp. His eyes widened in instant recognition and he floundered for words. "P –Pen?"

The team looked at him in shock and Garcia froze on the spot.

Dean stood up and walked to her. He didn't care that everybody's eyes were on him. He just stared at the woman in front of him with an amazement he hadn't felt in… ever. "Please tell me it's you, Pen."

"It's me," she squeaked.

Dean stopped just a pace away from her. He reached out his hand to touch her, but hesitated inches away. He wanted her to be real, but he didn't know what he would do if she wasn't. Pen was dead, he convinced himself. He killed her a long time ago. She wasn't real, couldn't be real. He didn't care. If he was seeing her, then maybe they could all be alive, even if it was only in his head.

He placed his hand on her shoulder and felt the solid body beneath his touch. Warmth radiated from her and she moved into the touch, even reaching out to touch his cheek. She was real. It wasn't in his head.

Without thinking, Dean pulled her into a gut-wrenching hug. He didn't realize he was crying until he heard her murmuring, "shhh, it's okay, it's alright. You're safe now. Shhh, shhh. You're here. You're okay." The sweet nothings continued while Dean sobbed into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, so sorry. I –I'm sorry," his voice broke. "I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. I'm sorry, Pen. I'm sorry." He whispered through his tears. Dean didn't think he could ever make up for what he'd done to her.

Dean was exhausted. He sunk into the comfort of Penelope's shoulder, murmuring apologies even as she assured him everything was fine. It was too much. Before he knew it, Dean was asleep. Luckily, Morgan and Hotch had been close enough to catch him before Penelope could be crushed under his weight. Morgan, Hotch, and Sam all took turns half-dragging him to Rossi's car, which was the biggest out of the lot of theirs, and laid him in the back seat. Rossi and JJ drove to the hospital to check Dean in. The rest of the team followed behind. They weren't going to leave him again until they were sure he would be alright.


	24. Empty Assurances

Hotch, Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, Rossi, Reid, Garcia, and Sam all sat in the waiting room of St. Mary's hospital in Quantico, Virginia. Dean had been sleeping for four hours when the doctor informed them about Dean's condition. He had heart problems stemming from his time in The Pit. The amount of stress had done a number on him and, according to his EKG, he'd had a few mild heart attacks already. The cuts and scrapes they'd treated at the hospital in Idaho were infected and his stitches had been removed. His mental health had yet to be assessed, but Hotch was sure that, if his body was in this bad of shape, his mind was probably in worse condition.

"I recommend sedating him," Hotch said. "If woken unexpectedly, he may react violently."

"We'll strap him down," the doctor assured him.

"Actually," Rossi interjected, "I don't think that's such a good idea." They had all gotten a clear look at the scars around Dean's wrists. He'd been tied down for an extend period of time and the last thing they wanted was for him to be reintroduced to his past traumas, especially when there was another option.

The doctor looked perplexed and pushed the matter until he was met with Hotch's intimidating stare. He gave in without further complaint, assuring them that he would sedate their friend while they worked on him. The last thing he wanted was for a madman to wake up during their treatment.

Everyone stayed silent and pensive, thinking about Dean and what they'd learned. They stayed that way for hours. The only break in the silence came when Hotch's cell phone rang. Strauss was on the other end telling them that their team would be removed from rotation for the next three days while they dealt with Dean's reappearance. Hotch told the team and they all looked relieved that they wouldn't have to deal with this and work all at once. The conversation turned awkward and they lapsed into silence again.

"What happened to him?" Sam asked a few hours later, breaking the silence with the questions everyone else was thinking. "Where was he? What did they do to him?"

"We don't really know," Reid answered. "He was kept in a facility of some sort judging by the small details we were able to gather from him. There were a dozen other victims there who were still alive when Dean escaped. The pictures we received from the Nampa PD indicate that he was tortured severely over the course of years."

"I know that," Sam said. "What I want to know is what they did to him after."

"After?" Prentiss asked.

"He broke," Sam said. "You know it. I know it. There's no way he didn't. But why is he still alive? They wanted him for something and whatever it was turned him into _this_. What happened to him that could make him forget everything?"

"What I want to know," Rossi said, "is how he escaped. He was obviously held in a facility that was locked down tightly so why now?"

"You think they let him go?" JJ asked.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "But if they didn't, why, after all this time, was he able to get free? Something must have changed that gave him the opportunity to escape."

"We could ask him," Reid offered. "He'll talk to me."

"Or me," Garcia said. "He recognized me. Why did he recognize _me_?"

"I'm not sure," Hotch said. He wondered briefly whether Winchester and Garcia had had an intimate relationship before his abduction, but instantly discounted it. He would have known—or the others would—if they had been seeing each other. "We should find out though. If he remembers Penelope then, hopefully, it's only a matter of time before his memory returns."

"With this form of retrograde amnesia brought about by psychological trauma, it's probable that with proper treatment methods, his memory will return, though it will likely be fragmented."

"I can't imagine anyone having to go through something so horrible that they lose an entire life's worth of memories," JJ said closing her eyes.

"It's a defense mechanism," Reid responded. "His mind forced him to do whatever he could to survive, even if it meant forgetting the world outside of The Pit."

"Just give him a few weeks," Sam said. "He'll remember." The way he said it, so matter-of-factly, had the team looking at him strangely.

"How are you so sure?" Garcia asked. "How do you know that he won't just keep on forgetting everyone?"

Sam answered hesitantly. "Because it's not the first time this has happened."

Sam expected the shocked and slightly suspicious looks from the members of his brother's team. What he didn't expect was that it would be coated in concern.

"Tell us," Hotch said gently. "Start from the beginning."

Sam nodded. "What do you know about John Winchester?"

"Not much," Rossi said.

"Nothing actually," JJ said. "Dean didn't like to talk about his family. I didn't even know he had a brother until we called you in on the case." She didn't need to specify which case.

"He raised you after your mother died in a house fire," Reid contributed.

Sam nodded, urging him on.

"Um, he took you and your brother on the road with him, hunting ghosts and demons?"

"And every other monster you can imagine," Sam added.

"You said he taught you Latin, Enochian, and Greek, common mythology and lore. He taught Dean hand-to-hand combat, weapons and tactics, and pretty much anything else he thought would turn you both into hunters, right?"

Sam nodded.

"You told me that your brother practically raised you," Prentiss said. "Your father would leave you two alone in backwater hotels for days, even weeks at a time."

"Yeah," Sam said, remembering. "Most of the time, he'd come limping through the door and either Dean or I would sew him back together." Sam chuckled at a memory. "We used to race sometimes, see who could stich a wound the fastest. Dean always beat me—in everything, really. Anyway," he continued, getting to the point. "our mother died when I was six months old so I don't remember anything. Dean was there, though. He was four when it happened. He never told me about it in so many words, but from what I've pieced together, John killed her and set the house on fire with both of us still inside. Dean was the one who carried me out. John convinced himself that it was the work of a demon.

"He wasn't just a paranoid schizophrenic with narcissistic personality disorder and religious psychosis," Sam continued. "He was a vigilante serial killer. We went from town to town looking into mysterious deaths and supernatural omens. He'd hunt down whatever creature he imagined and kill it—well, most of the time. Sometimes he would… hold it for information." He cleared his throat. He hadn't talked about his father in depth since his mandatory therapy sessions when he was ten.

"Dean was eleven when John took him on his first hunt." Sam continued slowly after a pause. "We were just outside of Michigan. There had been three disappearances at Addison Oaks County Park over the course of two weeks. The PD suspected a serial killer, but John suspected a windego. See, according to legend, windegos used to be human until they were forced to resort to cannibalism to survive. Eating human flesh gave them power, strength, and immortality, but it turned them into inhuman monsters. They're the perfect hunters—faster than humans, stronger. They can supposedly see in the dark, but they have human intelligence so they're smarter than any animal you'd come across.

"When a camper reported a bear attack a few days after we arrived, John was convinced. He told Dean to saddle up and he handed me a few hundred dollar bills with instructions to call Bobby if they didn't return in a week. They were only gone three or four days, but when they came back, Dean was bad. It took him weeks to recover. He still has burn scars from that night. John had to carry him into the room, he couldn't even walk. He left before I could ask what happened. I took off Dean's clothes, scrubbed him clean like he'd taught me. John returned with some cream and meds and took over patching him up. Dean was bandaged from chest to naval when he finished; his eyebrows were singed off; his face looked like he had a bad sunburn; and when he woke up, he had no clue who we were." Sam paused to get his bearings before he continued.

"He freaked out on us, even attacking John trying to get away. John isn't known for his patience and he had Dean's compliance… fairly quickly." Sam flinched involuntarily, remembering just how angry John had gotten when Dean lashed out with a well-aimed kick. "Dean clung to me for three days while John ranted and raved about not being able to leave on another hunt because Dean was a featherweight. Dean went back to being himself after a week. He remembered who I was, who John was, what we did for a living. He said he still didn't remember what happened on their hunt, but I don't know if he was telling the truth or not.

"I know it's not the same situation," Sam finished. "He's been through a lot more over the last four years than our father put him through in a decade, but I do know Dean. He'll bounce back. He always does. He hides things and tries like hell to forget them, but he always recovers. The man is a poster child for resilience, I guarantee it." Sam smiled, but it wasn't convincing.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of someone's loud yelling.

"That sounds like Dean," Prentiss said.

Hotch rose from his seat and walked to the nurse's station to warn them not to physically rouse Dean from his nightmare. The nurse understood and walked in herself, knocking on the door like Hotch instructed while the team remained in the hall. The yelling cut off abruptly and they knew Dean was awake.

"He's awake now if you'd like to go in," she said when she returned. "Visiting hours end at eight."


	25. Your Name is Pen

**WARNING: Graphic depictions of torture... again. See the end for a summary if this isn't your cup of tea.**

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_"You ready there, Doctor?" Alistair sneers the name, but he's smiling. _

_I look down at the woman on the rack and hesitate. She has curly blonde hair, pulled into pigtails with jewels outlining them. Her dress is green and red with strawberries on it and it falls just barely past her knees. A large belt keeps it clenched around her waist and it's only a matter of time before I'm going to remove it. The woman's face… she's petrified. She's frozen so completely that she can't even scream. It won't do her much good, of course, but she _should_ be screaming. Alistair likes it when they scream. If she doesn't, he'll make me make her. _

_The makeup that was applied heavily to her face makes tracks down her cheeks and everything else is smeared. She's familiar, but she looks different than I remember. Her eyes are a little too wide, her lips too small. A large birthmark shows on her shoulder that I don't remember ever seeing before. Other than that, she's still the same. _

_"What do I do?" I find myself asking, though I already know the answer. I've been on the rack too long not to know how it's supposed to go down. _

_"She's your new pet," Alistair answers, trailing a finger up her arm until it rests on her cheek. He strokes the tear marks , smearing the makeup further. "All pets need a name."_

_"She already has a name," I say. _

_The look Alistair gives me sends shivers down my spine. I bow my head, hoping its enough to appease him. When he speaks again, I know I'm forgiven. "Not anymore, she doesn't. Her name, like everything else, is going to…" he flitted his hand, "disappear. She's your pet so you get to name her. Stake your claim, boy."_

_I look back at the girl tied to the bed frame and I can only think of one name, one woman. "Pen," I say to her. "Your new name is Pen."_

_Her screams echo loudly through The Pit and Alistair smiles and laughs. He's absolutely giddy as I partially filet the skin from her shoulder. It's the birthmark I want to get rid of. It doesn't belong. So her skin comes off. It's much easier than I expected it to be. The knife is sharp and removing the first few layers is easy. There's blood—a lot of blood—but Alistair is on me, making sure I treat her right, not letting her bleed to death or suffer from infection. A new shipment of supplies came in yesterday so there's plenty to keep her alive for a while. _

_Alistair wants me to keep going, keep up with the skinning, but I'm done with that. I wanted the birthmark removed and, now that it's gone, there's no reason for me to keep going except that I'm relaxed and ready for more. I don't like the screaming like Alistair does, but maybe I will eventually. The thought fills me with equal parts dread and gleeful anticipation. I put the knife down much to Alistair's dismay, but he perks right up when I grab the scalpel instead. It's the precision of the blade that I want. _

_I carve the letters P-E-N into her arm so she won't forget—so _I_ won't forget—and I trail the blade up, up until it hits her skinned shoulder, leaving a line of fresh blood along the way. I play with her a little there, letting my fingers scrape gently over the sensitive flesh. The goose bumps that appear on her arm when I do that make me smile for the first time in years. I repeat the process, dragging the scalpel through the flesh of her arm down to the wrist and bringing it back up again to carve into her shoulder. _

_"Doc," Alistair says, pulling me from my focus. I look at him, curious as to why he called my name. He hasn't said anything for a while. I thought he was letting me lead on this. _

_"Yes?" I question. _

_"You were a little too rough with your playmate," he says, but he looks proud. _

_I frown in confusion and Alistair points at the arm bearing the girl's new name. I look in horror at the blood gushing from her wrist where I cut a little too deep. She'll be dead in minutes. Even if I could get the supplies out in time to fix her, the cut is covered in too much blood for me to do anything about it. Her sobs die down to low whimpers that become slower and quieter until they stop altogether. _

_"You need to be more careful with your toys," Azazel says chidingly, resting his hand on my shoulder. _

_Pen's limbs lie slack against the restraints. I thought that once she was gone, she would just go still, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Her leg gives off a twitch and hope swells in my chest at the thought that she's still alive, but her chest doesn't rise and her eyes never flutter open. I watch the small twitches until they're gone, leaving me with a body to contend to_.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Loud knocking woke Dean from his fitful sleep. He gasped, startled and panicked momentarily at the unfamiliar room around him. He remembered passing out when he saw Pen alive and safe. They must have brought him to the hospital. He'd refused before—Dean had already been to a hospital in Idaho and he didn't need to go back—and Hotch had tentatively agreed at the time. All of that seemed to fly right out the window when he passed out, leaving him in that awful, half-real memory. It was different than it had actually happened, but somehow the dream was even worse. Sometimes, the imagination _can_ be worse than reality.

Dean looked up to see a nurse in the doorway. She was a tall brunette in maroon scrubs, but Dean couldn't tell whether she was attractive or not. She was just a woman. "Are you alright?" she asked him seriously.

"Peachy," Dean said, rubbing his face.

"Well if you're up to it, you have visitors."

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

**RECAP: Dean has another dream/flashback in which woman resembling Penelope Garcia is put on the rack under Dean and he tortures and kills her. A nurse wakes him up and tells him he has visitors.**


	26. Visiting Hours

The team filed into Dean's room still stunned at Sam's account of their shared past. They knew that Dean had had a rough childhood, but just never realized how rough. It was a shock. Luckily, Rossi thought—or, perhaps, _unfortunately_—Dean had been through enough that he knew how to recover from traumatic events. Sam was right. He'd be back to at least a shadow of his former self in no time.

Judging by the small smirk he had when he caught sight of Garcia, it might be sooner than anyone expected.

"What's up, Doc?" Garcia said, smiling at him.

"Headache?" he asked her, ignoring the question.

"Just an itty bitty one," she lied. "It'll go away with some aspirin and a good night's sleep. Yours will too, don't worry."

Dean smiled genuinely at her, seeming content to ignore everyone else in the room. "Actually," he said. "I'm pretty sure that mine stems from a mild concussion and will persist for at least another week. Yours, on the other hand, will go away as soon as you come over here."

Garcia looked confused.

"Trust me, Pen," he said. "Home remedy."

She walked over to his bed and he positioned her so she sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him. Dean tried to reach up to her neck, but he was surprised to notice an IV sticking out from his left arm. Frowning, he traced the line to the pole next to him that carried bags of fluid: a saline drip, a TNA, and a broad spectrum antibiotic. They had also given him a mild sedative, just enough to keep him semi-lucid, but not enough for him to really do any damage if he turned violent. He'd wondered why he felt funny. Dean reached over and grabbed a tissue from a box that was left on the trey beside his bed. He held it to the area in his forearm where the needle went into his skin and pulled the IV from his arm.

"You shouldn't do that," Reid said belatedly.

"I wouldn't have to if they'd bothered to talk to me before hooking me up to an IV," he replied. "Do you mind getting my doctor, please, Dr. Reid? I have to have a chat about my prescribed medications." He capped the needle so it wouldn't accidentally stick someone and let it fall, harmless, to the floor. "Where was I?"

Dean slipped easily into Doc mode, focusing his attention on the patient in front of him. He stretched his fingers out, flexing them for a moment, before letting them rest on Garcia's shoulders. "Relax," he told her. He used his thumbs to feel her upper spinal column. He moved his fingers forward to cup her cup her chin and used the leverage on his thumbs to angle her head down. "Settle down, agents," Dean said, feeling the tension in the room at the position of his hands. He didn't lift his eyes from Garcia's neck. "Lift your arms parallel to the floor," he ordered. When she did, he lifted her chin and twisted quickly to the left and right, delighting in the feel of the small pops her neck gave. Garcia's quiet moan of contentment made him smile. He worked his thumbs through her neck, easing the tensed muscles. "Lower them slowly… Slower," he instructed. "Good." After another minute, he released her. "Better?" he asked.

"Oh wow," she said surprised. Garcia turned and smiled at him.

Dean froze for a second when she unexpectedly threw her arms around him, but then he sank into her touch. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, hugging her back. He let her go after a few seconds, allowing her out of the awkward position she was sitting in in order to hug him.

She didn't go back to standing with her friends, but stayed by his side. Dean liked having her there.

The doctor chose that moment to come into his room, followed by a straight-faced Dr. Reid. Dean wasn't sure what they'd spoken about, but it had obviously made Reid uncomfortable. Dean wasn't sure he liked the idea of anyone hassling the young doctor, especially, judging by the first words out of his mouth, someone who was as incompetent as this man appeared to be. "Awake, are we," he said. "Agent Reid informed me that you have removed your IV?"

"Yes, I have. And it's _Special_ Agent _Dr_. Reid," Dean corrected. Just seeing this man was bringing out his inner Alistair. He may not be able to use all of his old tricks, but he wasn't going to give in easily.

The agents in the room saw the change. Gone was the small bit of Dean they'd seen in his smirk. Now, he was one hundred percent Doc. It worried them a bit, though Hotch thought the doctor may have had it coming.

"I don't know what you two discussed in the hallway, but judging by my colleague's expression, it was objectionable to say the least. I do not believe he has been treated with the appropriate amount of respect."

"I apologize for any disrespect I may have shown. I was just informing _Dr_. Reid that—"

Dean cut him off. "I would like to discuss my treatment."

"There isn't much to discuss," the doctor said, his irritation showing now. Dean smiled viciously at him as he spoke. "You are severely underweight and require parenteral nutrition. An infection has set in on three of the seven lacerations on your torso that requires broad spectrum antibiotics. A saline drip has been added to prevent dehydration. I was informed that you may react violently in certain situations so you are also receiving a mild sedative. It is a pretty straightforward treatment," he concluded.

Dean's voice was dangerous when he spoke but the smile never left his lips. "I said I wanted to discuss my treatment, but I may have chosen the wrong words. I apologize for that. What I meant to say was that I am going to tell you how I wish to be treated and if you feel uncomfortable treating me as such, I will refuse treatment and discharge myself. Is that understood?"

The doctor swallowed once, but he persisted. "I can't promise anything," he said.

"I didn't ask for a promise," Dean replied slowly, is if he were speaking to a child. "I asked if you understood the options. Do you?"

The doctor glared slightly, but he nodded. "I do."

"Good. I will not abide by sedatives, pain medications, or anything that will hamper my ability to move at full capacity. Do not touch me for any reason without my direct consent and I will not react violently. In other words, once this sedative wears off, no more. You will also discontinue the TNA. I am aware of my current nutritional status and am monitoring it carefully. I do not believe that the positive effects of parenteral nutrition outweighs the risks in my situation. I am in no danger of starvation so it is unnecessary. The reason my wounds have become infected in the first place is _because_ of my regular doses of antibiotics. I have been on a steady regimen of Streptomycin over the course of two years. The bacteria has become resistant to it and it must be changed. I recommend Tetracycline, but anything without a –mycin will do. Do you agree to my treatment method?"

"The saline?" the doctor bit out sarcastically. He was obviously angry though he was trying poorly not to show it.

Dean's smile became wider this time, though it was still dangerous around the edges. "The saline drip is fine. I was feeling a little dehydrated earlier and I could use the fluids while I recover. As for the rest?"

"I will send a nurse in to change your IV," he said. The doctor turned on his heels and left.

Dean turned to Hotch. He'd noticed the small grimace on Hotch's face when he talked to the doctor about the sedative and he knew the senior agent had been the one to recommend it. "Thank you," he said. The threatening undertone seemed to have left with the doctor.

Hotch was surprised that the man had addressed him and how quickly Dean seemed to be able to reign in his hostility, but more than that he was confused by the thanks.

"For having him sedate me instead of strapping me down," Dean clarified. "I don't want a repeat of earlier, but…" He let the words trail off.

Hotch was beginning to understand Dean a little bit more.


	27. Recovery

An overnight stay quickly turned into temperature of a hundred and six and a mild seizure. Dean was catatonic for six hours and the doctor—a new one this time; the first one hadn't been seen again since his conversation with Dean—was forced to put restraints on him in case he came out of it while he was being treated. Garcia ushered the team home but she stayed with him. She would have anyway if it had been her choice, but Dean's attachment to her forced her hand. When he was lucid, he clung to her, either holding her hand or nestling himself into the crook of her arm. Mostly, it was to make sure that she was real and that she never left. He didn't think he could handle it if she turned out to be a hallucination brought on by the infection.

He started remembering things in bits and pieces. He recalled nearly losing his head having to watch Reid negotiate with a paranoid schizophrenic on a train. Hunting down the cannibal in Tennessee was a more powerful memory. He remembered seeing Jack for the first time and bringing Prentiss a double-shot mocha latte after he lost a bet. He didn't have any memories of the more recent edition to the team, SSA David Rossi, but Dean thought that it was better that he'd never met the man. He would be the first person Dean would get to know outside of The Pit. To Dean, that was better than the thought of remembering his old friends. Gideon's disappearance worried him, but only for a fleeting moment. He didn't have any real memories of the man other than a few glimpses of him in the background of memories featuring other members of the team. He was told they were pretty close, but he wasn't sure.

All of them came to memory in some form or another… except for Sam. During their conversations, Sam drifted into the background, listening more than contributing. Everyone else in the room had a place in Dean's mind and, slowly, he was becoming more comfortable with them. Sam, on the other hand, felt each new memory as a stinging blow. When they caught him outside his brother's room, each member of the team had separately reassured him not to take it personally and that Dean would remember him in time. He knew they were right, but knowing and feeling were two different things.

After they stabilized Dean's temperature and he came out of his catatonia, the nurses released his bindings almost immediately. Despite his misgivings about being tied down, he thanked them again for keeping him from hurting anyone else. The incident with Reid and Morgan had made a big impact on him and, more than anything, he didn't want to be put in a situation where he could lose control like that again.

Unfortunately, that moment came the day he was being released. The team and Sam had discussed Dean's living arrangements outside of his earshot, but Dean didn't mind. He wasn't comfortable going back to his apartment, knowing Sam was also living there, and he couldn't be left alone—didn't _want_ to be left alone. So the obvious choice was for him to go home with Garcia. Hotch cleared it with Strauss and they gave her two weeks off to situate themselves, which could be extended if she needed it.

The team was given another case that took them down to Florida four days after Dean had been admitted to the hospital. So for three days, Dean and Penelope—and sometimes Sam—sat around talking about anything and everything. There were things that were definitely different about Dean. He wouldn't touch the meat on his plate, for one. The previously carnivorous agent avoided the stuff like the plague. He smiled less and carried a lot of guilt on his gaunt shoulders. He still refused to talk about his time in The Pit, but the memories that returned to him slowly were a constant topic of conversation.

"Time to go already," Dr. Callahan said. "I'm giving you a prescriptions for antibiotics and your heart meds as well as something for the pain, though I'm sure you won't take those ones will you?"

"Sorry, Doc," Dean replied, finding it funny that someone else was Doc now. "I'll take everything else, but I can live with the pain."

She smiled sadly at him. The pictures from the Nampa PD didn't do his scars justice. She was the only person who had seen him from head to toe since his captivity. Dr. Callahan had no doubts that he could live with the pain, no matter how extensive it was. Still, it didn't mean he should have to. She knew that his real problem was that the medications would dampen his judgment or prohibit his full range of motion.

"Well," she said, "let me just give you a quick antiemetic and I'll start on your discharge paperwork," she told him. Nausea was just another symptom in the long list of complications. He'd been having stomach pains since he arrived, but he'd vomited twice in the last hour and it was about time they gave him something for it. Dr. Callahan came back with a filled syringe and quickly wiped his arm with an alcohol pad. "This won't hurt a bit."

_"This won't hurt a bit," Alistair teases him as he plunges the needle into his arm. _

"No—" Dean protested, but it was too late. The needle already jutted from his forceps and the doctor forced the plunger.

"All done," she said looking up at him. Her face froze in the middle of a smile and she backed away from the bed immediately, motioning for Garcia to move as well. Dean arched his back in agony, flinging himself back onto the bed. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his hands held onto the railings with a death grip. Every inch of exposed skin flamed red while he trembled violently.

"Doc!" Penelope called. She tried to go to him, but the doctor held her back.

There hadn't been a violent episode since Dr. Callahan been put in charge of the case, but according to the agents and from what she'd witnessed herself, she wouldn't be surprised if he came out of this perceiving them as threats. If that happened, they wouldn't be able to do anything but call for help. The doctor pushed the panic button and called for a sedative. She knew Dean was against being sedated, but this time she couldn't help him without it. It was for his own good as well as theirs.

"Stop," he whispered. He kicked his legs like he was trying to scoot away, but he only succeeded in throwing off his blankets. "Please."

Dr. Callahan was surprised that he wasn't screaming bloody murder with the amount of pain he seemed to be in. That he was able to suffer silently made it all the worse.

"Make it stop. Please. I'll do it." He began sobbing uncontrollably. "I'll do it. Please. No more. I'll do it."

A nurse arrived with the sedative. Dr. Callahan injected it into the IV which had miraculously stayed tethered to the man. Almost instantly, his body relaxed, falling onto the bed. He released the railings and his arms dropped to lie at his sides, though his legs continued to stubbornly kick for a few moments before going limp as well.

When Penelope tried to go to him this time, the doctor let her. She ran her fingers through Dean's hair and he looked up at her groggily. "Pen?" he asked.

"It's me," she said. "I'm here."

"No more shots." He trembled violently for a moment before the sedative made it impossible. "Please, no more," he begged.

"Don't worry," she said. "No more shots."

"Tell him I'll do it. I will this time. Promise." With that, he fell into unconsciousness.

Penelope's cheeks were wet with tears. Even though he couldn't feel it, she continued to comb her fingers through his hair. Anger overcame her and she wanted nothing more than to catch whoever was responsible for breaking the man in front of her and tear every limb from their bodies. How she was going to accomplish that feat while avoiding jail time, she didn't know.

When Dean woke up, she would get him settled. She would call Hotch as soon as she could to give them an update. They were going to be on their way back tonight and they would probably want to see Dean, but Penelope didn't think that was such a good idea. He was going to be exhausted and visitors could wait until the morning.


	28. Memories

**WARNING: Semi-graphic depictions of child abuse. No recap at the end. There isn't any real plot to this, just a few flashbacks that I wrote to appease my inner sadist and, in the last scene, my conscience. Enjoy.**

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Pen's apartment was small. It had a guest bedroom, though, so Dean got his own bed. Like the one at his apartment, the bed had an actual mattress that was comfortable beyond compare. Someone had gone to his apartment—Sam, probably—because the closet was full of Dean's clothes and there was a small stack of books that he remembered, but couldn't remember reading.

Pen made him lay down even though he'd been asleep for hours before he was discharged. He had soup for dinner and was surprised when he began yawning almost as soon as he was comfortable. He closed his eyes for a moment and slipped easily into sleep.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_I'm cold and scared, more than I'm willing to admit to myself, but even more than I'm willing to admit to the man ahead of me._

_Our footsteps ghost quietly over the rough expanse of the forest, barely a breeze through the trees despite my father's bulk and my thirteen year old clumsiness. I don't know these woods, but it doesn't matter. I know just how to step to avoid anything that could give me away while we track the beast Dad has in his sights. It's been a long time since the last one, too long. Dad's getting impatient and, while it won't make him clumsy, it makes him more irritable. Sammy hasn't seen any of Dad's bad days and he won't if I have anything to say about it. It's pretty easy to keep them apart. Sammy spends half of his day at school, which gets him out of the house for a good eight hours, and the rest of the time at either at the library or in the bedroom of whatever backwater hotel we're staying at. It's not avoidable all the time, but whenever I can manage it, it's worth the effort. _

_The last hunt, Dad was happy enough with the windego we'd caught and killed. I felt sorry for the bear, but at least that time, unlike this windego hunt, it wasn't human. It had been simple enough to put a bullet in its head while Dad was busy trying to burn the thing. This hunt, there's no such luck. My stomach turns and I can't help but stumble slightly as I try to keep my already empty stomach from heaving. _

_Dad turns and glares at me. It's too dark to see the hand before it strikes the side of my head. I don't expect it so I don't roll with it. It makes my head spin for a second, but I keep my balance. "Quiet," he hushes._

_Dad is too engrossed in the hunt to bother controlling his strength. That's the only reason I pushed him to go faster, now, tonight, instead of waiting. Sammy is old enough that he's starting to realize just how unusual our family is and the questions he wants answered lead nowhere good. I know from experience. The only way to keep Sammy safe is to push Dad onto bigger and better hunts, ones that will make him disappear for days—weeks—afterward and when he returns, he'll be one hundred percent better. Sometimes he even takes us places and smiles after. It's those times that make it harder and harder to remember that Dad isn't always Dad. Sometimes, he's a monster. _

_This is the last one. After this, no more. I can't do it anymore. Tomorrow—well, I think it's tomorrow—is my birthday. If tonight goes as planned, Sammy and I will be long gone and Dad will be somewhere where he can't hurt anyone anymore. I need to keep Sammy safe, no matter what. Even if it means that I have to become a traitor. _

_The windego—woman, I remind myself—is crying loudly. If I can hear her, I know Dad can. He probably already knows where she is, but my ears aren't trained enough to tell just from the low sobs. I follow Dad as he changes direction, heading straight for the woman. I don't like the next part, never like the next part. He smiles when he finds her, fallen on the ground and too exhausted to get back up. Even her crying is only halfhearted. We've been out here for hours, tracking this woman. It would have been quicker, but the dark makes it harder to see the signs. A part of me wishes that we'd waited until morning to head out, saved this woman from having to run for her life for so long, but then I think back to Sammy and just how stubborn he was being today and just how on edge Dad was. There was no way Sammy would have been safe tonight. This is the only way. _

_It's getting harder and harder to convince myself. _

_"Found you," Dad says to the woman. _

_"Please," she pleads. "Please."_

_Dad doesn't even recognize that she spoke. He's too busy convincing himself that the woman is actually a monster. "See, Dean?" he asks. "I told you, a wounded windego. You have the matches?"_

_I nod and hand them over. _

_The woman finds a last reserve of strength and hauls herself to her feet in a futile attempt at escape. Even if she had been able to outrun Dad, she would be only be heading further and further into the forest where no one could rescue her. Sometimes, when hunts lead to the woods and Dad wants us to split up, I can guide whoever we're hunting back to the road for help without him knowing, but not this time. _

_A torrent of bullets fly from Dad's gun, striking dead center of her torso. I want to cry, can feel it coming, but I force the tears back. If Dad sees, tonight won't be enough to appease him. I am a soldier. Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers don't show fear. _

_"Hurry, Dean! It's only stunned!" I pull the lighter fluid from the duffle bag I have slung over my shoulder and toss it to him. I know she isn't stunned. Even in the low light of the moon shining through the trees, I can see her eyes. She's dead. There's no mistaking it except Dad does. He coats her entire body in the stuff and strikes a match. Her body erupts into flame and eventually I can't see her face anymore. "Good job, Dean," Dad says, laying his arm comfortably around my shoulders. "I'm proud of you."_

_The words leave the taste of bile in my mouth. I have to protect Sammy, I remind myself. No matter what. Sometimes, though, on nights like these, it's really hard to remember that. _

_CM~SPN~CM~SPN_

_"I hate you! You're always making us stay in funky towns all alone. You don't love us! Did you even love Mom?" That last statement for sure gets his attention. Even at ten, I know that talking about Mom, especially something bad about her, is the quickest way to a beating._

_Right on cue, Dad turns away from a crying Sammy and focuses his rage-blinded eyes on me. Sammy heard it, the code word, and he scrambles quickly into the bedroom like he's supposed to. He's hiding in the closet, I know, plugging his ears like I taught him and humming to himself. It's like a game, only not. Whenever I say the code word, even if Dad's not here, he knows what to do. We practice it sometimes just so I know he's ready when something bad happens. Tonight isn't practice. _

_The first hit doesn't take me by surprise. I've been training to fight my whole life so it's easy to roll with the first punch. Dad's yelling something at me, but the fist got my ear so it's hard to make out the words. I know what he's saying though, the same thing he always says. Selfish, stupid, worthless. _

_It's not too bad, nothing I can't handle. And when he finishes, he leaves me and Sammy alone in the motel. He won't be back until morning. _

_I pick myself up off the floor and stumble into the small bathroom. I can't let Sammy see. Even if I can't hide the bruises, I can hide the blood and I can clean myself up so it doesn't look so bad. That much, at least, I can do. The pain hasn't set in yet so it's easy to clean the drying blood off of my face. My nose isn't broken I don't think, but it's still bleeding pretty bad. Another cut on my cheekbone drips where Dad's ring grazed it the wrong way. The busted lip isn't too bad, but I'm going to have a black eye in the morning. It's already swelling. I change out of my shirt last and check to make sure nothing's broken. I roll my shoulders and twist my back and lift my knees to my chest. I'm sore, but nothing too bad. It hurts to breathe a little because my ribs are bruised pretty bad, but I don't think they're broken. Broken ribs hurt. A lot. _

_I think about taking a shower, but I don't want to leave Sammy in the closet longer than I need to. Dad slammed the door pretty hard so I know Sammy knows he's gone, but he won't leave his hiding spot until I get him. He doesn't always listen to me, but this is an order he never disobeys. No matter what, Sammy will stay tucked safe and sound in that closet until I come and get him to tell him it's okay to come out. _

_I turn off the water faucet and finish buttoning up my shirt. It's the best I can do, but I still look pretty bad. With a sigh, I open the closet door. Sammy looks up at me with wide eyes, taking in all my new cuts and bruises. He can't see the ones under my clothes, but the way he looks at me makes me think that maybe he knows they're there. _

_"Come on, Sammy," I say to him. "I'll make us some dinner." _

_He stands up and follows me to the kitchen. I'm not hungry, but I eat my SpaghettiOs anyway so Sammy doesn't worry about me. _

_That night, when we go to bed, he curls up by my side. "I'm sorry, Dee," he cries. "It's all my fault."_

_"No it's not, Sammy," I say, hugging him closer. I soothe him through the night until he falls asleep so he knows that none of this is his fault, that he's safe and loved. Not selfish. Not stupid. Not worthless. Not like me. _

_CM~SPN~CM~SPN_

_My chest is covered with bandages and it hurts. A lot. I try to take them off, but a small pair of hands stops me. "Don't, Dee," the boy says. He's so small, much smaller than me, but I feel like I can trust him. I have a question though. _

_"Dee?" I ask. "Who's Dee?"_

_"Stop kidding," the boy says, but I'm confused. He looks at me funny. "Dad?" the boy calls. "Something's wrong with Dean."_

_I don't even notice the large man in the room until he comes closer to the bed. I shrink into the boy even though it hurts to move. I'm so scared. I don't know what's happening, but it can't be good. I think that I'm the one shaking, but I'm not. It's the little boy. The kid's obviously scared of him. Maybe he's the reason everything hurts. I know that, no matter what, I'll protect him from this man._

_"Snap out of it, Dean," the man says gruffly. "We don't have time for this."_

_I whimper and the man scowls. _

_"Sam," he says to the kid. "What the hell's going on?"_

_The kid—Sam?—answers tentatively. "I don't know. Dean?"_

_I look at him because I know he's talking to me even if I don't recognize the name. _

_"What happened to you? On the hunt?"_

_I look at him in confusion. "What hunt?" I ask. _

_"Goddammit!" the man shouts. "We don't have time for your shit, Dean. Come here. I have to change your bandages." He pulls at me, but I don't want to go with him. Something screams at me that he's dangerous, scary. I kick at him and my foot hits him right in the face. He reels back, clutching his nose and blood drips down from it, coming faster the longer he stands there. Even though his hand covers his face, I can see it change from surprise to rage. "You little…" He reaches for me and I struggle even more, trying to kick at him again, but now he expects me to fight and it hurts too much to really try. _

_The man grabs my hair and pulls me off of the bed. He drags me to the small kitchen and tosses me into a chair. I catch myself and settle into the seat. My chest burns and it hurts worse when the bandages scrape across it. I don't remember ever being this scared before. I start crying, but it just makes the man even more angry. A sharp pain across my face distracts me from my chest and it takes a moment for me to realize that the man hit me. _

_"Quit your bellyaching," he says. _

_But the more I try to stop crying, the harder it is and soon, it's too loud even to me. It's hard to breathe and my chest hurts twice as much. _

_"What the hell is wrong with you?" the man asks. _

_"I –I –I…" I can't seem to get anything out past that word. _

_"I shoulda known," he says, sneering at me. "Featherweight of a son can't even keep it together through a hunt. Worthless."_

_I look up and see Sam still sitting on the bed, staring at me with horrified eyes. He's so scared, probably even more scared than me. I swallow and cough a few times, trying my hardest to stop hyperventilating. I don't know how I know, but it's my responsibility to make it better. He shouldn't be seeing this. _

_"I –I'm sor –ry," I say between sobs. _

_The man glares at me before snatching his jacket from the back of my chair. I flinch as he comes close, but he doesn't hit me again. "Take care of his bandages and pack up," the man says. "We're leaving when I get back." He doesn't wait for a response. He just walks out the door, slamming it as he leaves, leaving me alone with the kid. _

_As soon as the man's car pulls out of the lot, the kid scrambles over to me and pulls me into a hug. I don't even care that it hurts. It's a nice hug that makes me feel safe._

_"Sam? That's your name?" I ask. _

_"Sammy," he corrects._

_"I'll keep you safe, Sammy," I say, unaware of where the fierce surge of protectiveness comes from. _

_He pulls back and looks at me. "No," he says. "It's my turn to protect you, Dee. Don't worry."_

_He leads me back to the bed and takes off my bandages. I get a good look at my chest. It doesn't look as bad as it feels. I thought for sure all of my skin had been ripped off, but there are only a few burns in small patches on one side of my chest. I want to yell when he cleans them, it hurts so bad, but he keeps mumbling apologies and I know he feels guilty about hurting me so I try to keep them in. I can't stop the tears from coming though, even though I'm trying my hardest. _

_CM~SPN~CM~SPN_

_When I pick Sammy up from school, he has the biggest grin on his face I've ever seen. Even before he's close enough to talk to, I'm wearing the same grin. It's contagious. _

_"Hey, Sammy," I say, ruffling his hair. He's usually a happy kid, but something's really been exciting him. "What's with the smile?"_

_"Nothing," he says. "Just happy."_

_I shrug it off, not reading too much into it. Sammy and I have been at Kim Manners Elementary School for three months—a new record—and he's been acting strange like this for days already. I want to know why, but he's learned a lot about avoiding questions over the years. It didn't take long for him to realize our family is weird. He's eight, not stupid. Dad being gone for so long would come as a surprise to most second graders, but for Sammy, it's pretty much normal. He used to ask a lot of questions about why Dad's gone all the time, but he seems to have reached a stage where he either doesn't care anymore or he realized that I'm not going to answer him. It doesn't really matter right now. Sammy's happiest when Dad's gone and he'll be gone for a while if his last message was anything to go by—a week at least—so there's plenty of time to figure out what has Sammy so damn cheerful. _

_We walk the two miles to the hotel mostly in silence. Sammy likes to run ahead and, as long as I can see him, I let him do it until we're in sight of the hotel. If Dad decides to come back early and sees Sammy off on his own, he'll tan my hide. The car isn't in the lot and no one is in the room when we get there, though. Sammy comes in behind me and dead bolts the door out of habit. He climbs onto one of the two chairs in the small kitchenette, sitting on his knees, and empties out his backpack. His homework folder, a new book, and a small paper bag are set on the table. He smiles fondly at the bag and places it gently on the counter. _

_"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the bag. He eats lunch at school so I'm pretty sure it isn't food._

_"You'll see," he says with a secret smile. This, I realize, is what's had Sammy so happy all week. _

_I roll my eyes and leave him to his homework. His grin just gets bigger and, while I'm excited to know what he has in the bag, I'm disappointed to know that, after he shows me what's inside, he won't be wearing that secret smile anymore. I want him to be this happy all the time, but I know it's just wishful thinking. _

_He finishes his homework in record time, but I continue to work on mine. Sammy's smart, like really smart, and I have to ask him for help once or twice with my own homework before I finish it an hour after he's done with his. _

_Sammy fidgets and paces and acts nervous until six o'clock rolls around and I get up to make dinner. _

_"Can I do it?" he asks. _

_"Do what?"_

_"Make dinner," he says. _

_"Why?"_

_He shrugs. "I dunno," he says. "You make dinner all the time. I wanna make dinner for you tonight."_

_"Ooookaaay," I say slowly. "But you can't use the stove unless I'm there with you."_

_He practically beams at me and I feel a swell of pride that it was _me_ who put that smile on his face. Maybe I'll show him how to cook for real sometime. He'd like that._

_"Deal," he says and starts looking through the near-empty cabinets for something to make. I watch as he pulls down a jar of peanut butter, honey, and a half-loaf of bread from the cabinet. He makes four sandwiches and even cuts the crust off of them. He's so proud when he hands the plate to me that I take huge bites and eat messily, even licking my fingers to show how much I love it. There's too much honey and it sticks to the roof of my mouth, but they're the best sandwiches I've ever eaten because it's Sammy who made them. _

_"What'd you do at school today?" I ask after dinner as I help clean up the mess he left behind. Who knew how hard it was to wipe honey off of things? It's going to take a long time, but that's good. It'll give us longer to talk. _

_Sam focuses on wiping a small puddle of the stuff off on the floor when he answers. He's a little nervous now and he speaks slowly. "We finished our Father's Day projects today," he says. _

_That must be what's in the paper bag. I'm glad he's not looking at me or else he'd see the sad look on my face when I realize that Dad won't be happy about the present he has waiting for him. He'll probably see it as a waste of time. Sammy's going to be so disappointed, especially when he's obviously proud of whatever he's made. I'm angrier than I think I've ever been at the man just knowing how miserable Sammy's going to be after this. "You did?" I ask to keep the conversation going. There's no reason to dampen his mood now. Maybe I can milk it a little longer before Dad comes home. _

_"Yeah," Sam says. "Before we started, Mr. Marks had us all say one thing that we appreciated our dads doing for us."_

_"What did you say, Sammy?" I'm not too worried that he said something inappropriate, but it doesn't hurt to be sure. _

_"It was weird," Sam said. "'Cause I was gonna say that I appreciate when Dad leaves me at home alone with you, Dee."_

_I panic for a moment. If Sammy said that, then we're just a few follow-up questions away from getting a visit from CPS. Dad's going to be so mad if that happens again. Plus, that means we'll have to move and finish the school year somewhere else. It's only a few weeks until school is over. It'll suck to have to move before then. _

_"I was in the middle of the room so other kids went before me. Lots of them talked about reading bedtime stories and spending time together and all the stuff you do with me, Dee, like making dinner and asking me about school. You know what I figure?" he asks. _

_I smile at the familiar question. It's what he asks me whenever he's been thinking really hard about something, the conclusion he comes to after he puts the pieces together. It makes me proud that Sammy's smart enough to figure things out on his own, even though he's still really little. "What do you figure, Sammy?" I ask. _

_"Most kids don't like when their dads are gone. They like having dads at home to help them with stuff and they're sad when they have to leave. They love their dads." He pauses. "I don't love Dad," he admits quietly. It looks like he's going to cry._

_I hate this. I hate that Dad can make Sammy so sad even when he's not here. I wish that I could tell Sammy that he should love Dad and that Dad loves him. I don't, though, because I don't know if it's a lie or not. _

_He looks at me and I see that he's about to tell me something important, something that he thinks I won't like. "I figure that if dads are supposed to take care of their kids then you're the one who's really my dad, Dee."_

_I don't know what to say, how to respond. I wasn't prepared for something like this. This was the furthest thing from my mind when I asked him about school. I'm frozen in place. What do I do?_

_Sammy continues, saving me from having to answer. "I told them that I appreciate that, no matter what, my dad always takes care of me." Sammy aims one of his wide grins at me and I feel one spread across my face in return. _

_I throw my arms around him and wrap him in a hug. We stay like that for a while. Forgotten are the napkins and the mess of honey still all over the counters. We stand in the kitchen, hugging tightly until Sammy pulls away. We're both still smiling when he hands me the paper bag on the counter. "Happy Father's Day, Dee." _

_I open the bag and pull out layers and layers of tissue paper. Sammy laughs when each piece falls to the floor and I think that maybe I can wad it all up later and we can play catch with it. It'll be a lot of fun. I see something metal when I finally reach the bottom so I turn the bag over in my hand. A small money clip falls into my palm and I flip it over to see a crudely engraved 'DW' on the back._

_"It's for Dean Winchester," Sammy says. "Mr. Marks gave us some tools to write on them, but they weren't sharp enough for me to write it very good. I woulda used my knife but you always tell me not to ever take it out at school." He's worried I don't like it and that's simply unacceptable. _

_"Thanks, Sammy," I tell him, smiling the biggest smile I think I've ever had. "This is the best gift ever."_

_"Really?" he asks hopefully. _

_"One hundred percent. Promise."_

_The smile reappears on his face. He knows that it's not the same as when Dad says it. I never make a promise unless I'm telling the truth. _

_To strengthen my promise, I take the money Dad gave me out of my boot and clip it all together. "Now I don't have to worry that I'll lose some of it," I tell him. "Come on. Let's finish the kitchen and then I have something for us to do with the tissue paper."_

_Sammy doesn't pick up the paper towel though. This time, he's the one who initiates the hug. "You're the best dad ever, Dee."_

_"Thanks, Sammy," I tell him, but inside I'm worried. "We need to keep this our secret though, okay?"_

_"I know," he says, surprising me. "I won't tell anyone." I know he means Dad._

_I squeeze him real tight for a moment before I let him go. "Now we have a kitchen to clean," I say. _

_Even though he grimaces when goes back to the spot on the floor, I know he's happy that I like my Father's Day gift. _

_I focus on the counter, but the whole time I clean, I can feel the clip in my boot and I can't stop smiling. _


	29. Picnic in the Park

It had been a long time since Dean had had a good night's sleep. When he was in the hospital, the nurses would rouse him every few hours either to check something—which they couldn't do without his permission, they'd been warned—or because he was making too much noise from his dreams. He should have expected that it his luck wouldn't get any better. When he woke up, his pillow was wet from where he'd been crying in his sleep. He was happy that he hadn't been loud enough this time to wake Pen up. He may not have been able to sleep well, but that didn't mean she shouldn't have had a good night's sleep. She'd stayed with him in the hospital, even through the night much to the dismay of the head nurse. To him, after so much time sleeping in The Pit and then on park benches after that, the beds were a miracle. To her, they'd been hard and uncomfortable. Dean smiled at the thought that Pen was able to finally relax into the soft—so much softer than the ones in the hospital, he was surprised to find—bed and sleep without the disruption of his unwilling screams.

Dean stretched out his limbs, loving the popping sound his shoulders and back made when he twisted just right. It was a great feeling, the best really. He was slowly remembering who he was and just as much as he appreciated getting his identity back, he was also scared that the man he'd become in The Pit would continue to be the man he really was. Now that he was out, he wanted nothing more than to go back to his old self. He wanted to work cases for the BAU, hang out with his brother, flirt with random women, drink excessive amounts of alcohol, and just _live_. But with everything that had happened to him being at the forefront of his mind, he knew that if he ever wanted to have some semblance of a normal life again, there was something he needed to take care of.

He stumbled out of bed and walked into the small kitchenette where Pen stood, making breakfast. Now that he was awake, he could smell the delicious scent of bacon mixed with the sweet aroma of pancakes. Dean was still getting used to having regular meals so his eyes were definitely bigger than his stomach when he forked everything but the meat onto his plate.

"Coffee?" Pen asked, pouring herself a glass.

Dean nodded, his mouth full.

She chuckled at him, reveling in the familiar expression, and poured another mug for him. "So," she began, "Hotch and the team want to make a debut for lunch. I was thinking picnic, but we can do whatever. What do you say?"

"Sounds good," Dean said and he meant it although he had ulterior motives for wanting to dine with the team. "Is Sam gonna be there?"

"Yep," Pen said, smiling.

"Good. I have something to tell him."

Pen didn't push, though he would have told her if she asked. She just smiled like she already knew what he wanted to say and ate her breakfast, nursing her mug of coffee the entire time.

When they finished, Pen claimed the shower, leaving Dean to rifle through the belongings that someone had thought to put in the guest bedroom. His clothes were the most familiar to him—all blue jeans and dark button ups and t-shirts that he knew would feel right on him. The books were the most disconcerting. Just by looking at the spines, he knew what was in them. He just didn't remember ever reading them before. It was déjà vu all over again and he didn't like the feeling.

There were pictures in a small book on the bedside table. Dean flipped through them absentmindedly. It was filled with pictures of Dean and Sam, a young blonde woman that looked vaguely familiar, and a dark haired man that he recognized as his father. In all of his time in The Pit, he never forgot John. If anything, his memories of the man had helped him get through the worst days. His medical and combat training came in handy down there and every time he stitched a wound or grappled with a Demon, John's face was there in his mind. It didn't provide him any comfort. All it did was serve as a reminder of who had taught him the skills in the first place. He wondered briefly where John was, but then decided he didn't really care. He didn't have any love for the man and, judging by his slow returning memories, he never had. He'd stayed in contact out of duty and obligation, not out of love.

He put the photo album back and rummaged through the drawers. They were empty but for a couple stacks of underwear and socks. There wasn't much else in the room so he settled for changing into some clothes and fixing his hair in the mirror. It looked like crap. It was much longer than he would have liked it to be because he hadn't cut it since it was unevenly chopped with rusty scissors in The Pit a month ago. Dean contemplated going in search of a pair of clippers, but the likelihood of finding some in Pen's apartment was slim so he decided to wait to buy some. He slipped on his boots last, surprised to find something moving inside one of them. Dean shook it out into his hand and gasped when he saw the money clip with a 'W' on one side, the 'D' long-since rubbed off. He smiled and slipped it back in his boot. He didn't care if it was a little uncomfortable, it made him feel good to have it with him.

Dean picked up one of the books and settled in, skimming the pages, trying to pull up even more memories of his past. By the time a knock sounded at the door, hours had passed and Dean was a little hungry. He turned to the door to see Pen smiling and dressed in a green and red dress so like the one Dean had seen in The Pit that it had him frozen in place.

"Don't look so scared, sugar," Pen said teasingly. "It's just me. You ready to go?"

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to panic. He hated that the smallest things would set him off. Even though he knew Pen was alive and safe and that the woman he'd killed in The Pit hadn't been the real Penelope Garcia, there was a part of his mind that said it didn't matter and freaked out about it anyway.

He opened his eyes again, feeling a little better, but the anxious expression must have still been on his face because Pen's expression melted into concern.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Tell me."

"Nothing," Dean said gruffly, trying to shake it off. "I'm fine." He smirked at her and she brightened instantly.

"Good. Ready to go?"

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Dean and Pen walked to the park where Sam and the team were waiting for them. Food was spread out on one of the picnic tables—sandwiches, chicken, fruit, potato salad, and a myriad of odds and ends. When Dean approached the table, he went directly to Sam and pulled him into a tight hug.

"I remember," Dean said when he pulled back.

"What do you remember?" Sam asked cautiously.

Dean smirked. "Everything important, Samsquatch," he teased, aiming a light punch on his arm.

Sam smiled crookedly. "Let's get this show on the road," he said, grabbing a plate and piling it high with food.

Everyone followed suit and soon their plates were all full. Dean grabbed a little bit of everything, including half of a ham sandwich much to the surprise of Pen who'd noticed his aversion to meat.

"Ham, Doc?" Pen wondered. She'd stuck with the name. It made him feel weird when the others had started to call him Dean. He wasn't Dean anymore, not really. He probably wasn't Doc either, but it seemed he was more Doc than Dean so he liked it when Pen called him that.

"Yep," he said. "It's been a while, but I think I can stomach it a little at a time. I'll be up to steaks and burgers in no time."

They all had a laugh at that. It seemed that the more memories that returned, the more he was sounding like his old self. He was a far cry from the man who'd been a part of their team. They hadn't even recognized the man in the hospital, but it had been a peek into the man Dean had been in The Pit. They were glad that he seemed to be finding himself again. Even the little things like the way he ate screamed 'Dean Winchester.' Dean still couldn't eat much, but what he did eat, he ate with fervor, nearly stuffing his face.

Sitting on the benches, everyone talked about their lives over the last few years, filling Dean in on some things he'd missed while he was gone. He was happy to hear it. There were so many things he didn't want to talk about that he liked being able to get lost in the conversations going on around him. Most of his time was spent watching Sam, worry etched on his face. Dean could sense that something was wrong, but he didn't have any idea what it was.

Two hours later, the excitement died down and clean up started. Dean pulled Hotch aside much to the older agent's surprise. Though his memories were returning, there were still times when Hotch would catch Dean deferring to him or gauging his reactions when he spoke. Their relationship was a balancing act and Hotch just hoped he didn't fall on the wrong side. Dean pulling him aside like this was a step in the right direction as far as he was concerned, at least until he found out what the younger man wanted with him.

"I need your help, Hotch," Dean said seriously.

The way he said it made Hotch careful when he answered, "I'll help in any way that I can."

Dean nodded as if he'd expected the noncommittal answer. "You used to be a lawyer," he said, looking for an answer though it wasn't a question.

"Yes," Hotch answered warily.

"I need you to arrange a deal for me. I want to be exonerated of any crimes committed while I was being held captive in exchange for information I have regarding my captors."

"I've been trying," Hotch said, "but since you've already given your partial testimony and the victims' DNA, I haven't had much luck."

"I suspected as much," Dean said with a smile. "I have more to offer, though. The information I have could help close three dozen missing persons cases and lead to the arrest of… well, everyone in the Cult of Seals."

Hotch looked surprised. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Dean just smiled. "I'm sure. I was actually hoping that I could come into the office today so we don't waste more time. I'm ready and I'm pretty sure you have no leads so it shouldn't be too hard to get me that deal."

"I'll see what I can do," Hotch answered absentmindedly. He thought about what kind of information Dean would have to offer and just how long it had taken the man to come clean. It worried him that Dean would keep this secret with other people's lives on the line. Just how different was the man in front of him than the one he used to be? he wondered.

They went back to cleaning up their lunch mess. When they were saying their goodbyes, Hotch told Garcia to bring Dean to the office. If things went according to plan, he would call the team into the office later on to process the information Dean gave him. Hopefully, it would lead to an arrest—or several—rather quickly. There was no point in dragging this on. Dean still needed to recover and the team needed time to process his return. There was still a lot of work to do, but with any amount of luck it would be over soon.


	30. Confessions

Dean signed his name for the last time, accepting the deal proposed to him by the FBI. He was immediately exonerated of all charges against him for the last four years, including the car theft in Illinois. After hearing the deal Dean wanted to make with the FBI, Hotch had an idea where this conversation would lead and, more than anything, he hoped that he was wrong.

"Tell me everything," Hotch said once the papers were signed and done. Dean wouldn't be arrested for anything he'd done in The Pit, but depending on what was said, it was likely that his career in the FBI was over should he want it.

"James Novak," Dean said. "He's the Angel that gripped me tight and raised me from perdition." Sarcasm colored his tone, but it was all bravado. Dean was nervous to be talking about this. "Find him and put a little pressure on him, he'll tell you everything he knows. It probably isn't much; he seemed like more of a grunt than a major player, but you'll get enough out of him for a conviction or two."

Hotch nodded. "I'll get Garcia on it. Now how about you start from the beginning?"

"Sounds like a plan," Dean chuckled, his anxiety rising another level. He was trying to keep up an indifferent face, but it was disappearing quickly. He rubbed his hands together nervously, but he looked Hotch in the face when he spoke. "The first day was the worst," he began. "I mean, it wasn't the _worst_, but it felt like it because it was the first time. It felt like I was strapped to that bed for years, but it was probably only a few hours. His name was Alistair, chili cook-off champion and reigning tormentor of The Pit.

"There was a hierarchy—not much of one, but enough to keep the Demons in line. Azazel was at the top. Here's victim number one for you. He was former military. I don't know what branch, but there's no doubt that he served time somewhere. Check medical and hospital records and you'll find him. His eyes were this weird yellow color—jaundice—and it was bad so it's likely that it was a condition that preceded The Pit.

"Anyway, Azazel was at the top. Meg was his right hand man. She was this short, blonde bitch with a bad nose job. Sexual sadist if I've ever seen one. I didn't ever see much of her, but she was the only one I knew who kept her real name. She stayed in Azazel's room with him most of the time and only came out to _play_, if you catch my drift." Dean couldn't help the shudder that rolled through him at just how rough Meg liked to play.

"Alistair was the third in their little Unholy Trinity. He was Azazel's left hand man. He was the one who would keep the Demons in line, punishing them for breaking the rules or disobeying a direct order. He'd strap 'em down and go to town—'breaking them in,' he called it."

"Where did you fall into this chain of command?" Hotch asked.

Dean smirked at him, but it was a rueful look, nothing like his usual teasing smile. "Well, I was playmate number one for a while, but I eventually took over as Azazel's left hand man when Alistair left. See, apparently, I was _special_," he scoffed the word. "The Angels made a deal with Alistair: he breaks me, he gets out. Like I said, the first day was bad, but when it ended Alistair removed the restraints and held out a knife and made me a deal. If I wanted off the rack, all I had to do was use the knife."

Hotch had an idea of where this story went and his stomach turned.

Dean's malicious smile threw him for a loop. "I spit right in his smug little face and told him to shove it. It was worth it for me. I could deal with the pain because everyday I had the opportunity to tell him off." Dean paused for a minute, reveling in the memory of the shocked look on Alistair's face that first time. Then a shiver crawled down his back and his smile disappeared as he remembered the consequences of his actions. "That just pissed him off. I forced him to get creative. He tried everything: cutting, burning, electrocuting, suffocating, the works and everyday I told him to stuff it down his throat.

"Two weeks in," Dean said after a short pause, "I said yes. Alistair smiled at me and I just didn't care anymore, you know. He pulled me into the room next door and put a knife in my hand. There was this guy just… huddled in a corner, shaking and looking at me like he knew what I was going to do and… I couldn't do it. I dropped the knife and told Alistair and he just smiled and strapped me back to the bed." Dean clenched his hands together tight enough to stop them from trembling. His words were coming faster now, the filter on his mouth gone. He rambled on, faster and faster. He just wanted it all out. "That was the first night of shots. He'd put just the smallest amount of alcohol in this syringe and inject it into my veins. I thought I was dying. Hell, I was happy about it. It hurt like hell, but I thought it was over… It wasn't, obviously. He couldn't do it too often or he'd kill me. Every two or three months came another round of shots and I'd scream and thrash, but when it was over, he'd leave me alone to sleep and heal for the next day."

Hotch was on the verge of vomiting. With his job, he had plenty of ammunition for his nightmares, but nothing could come even close to comparing with what Dean was telling him. He knew it would be something along these lines, but hearing the details wasn't something he could have prepared himself for. Dean was shaking, the previously small trembles getting bigger with every word.

"For three years," Dean said, his voice hoarse. "Three years, I said no. Then… I said yes. He put the knife back in my hand and led me to the next room. It was a woman this time and I just walked inside, no hesitation, and cut her throat… I don't even remember what she looked like." Unbidden tears fell from his eyes and Dean willed them to stop. He cleared his throat and rubbed at them as if, by clearing the evidence away quickly enough, Hotch wouldn't know he'd been crying. Dean sat back in his chair and put his shaking hands in his lap. He continued on in a monotone, no longer able to emotionally process his memories.

"I thought they were going to kill me after that, but Alistair had apparently started liking me at some point down the line. So he started teaching me. Azazel had a nice stack of medical books in his room that they had me study until I could pretty much recite them in my sleep. Every couple of months, the Angels would lower a box of medicine and supplies down with our food. The room I'd been kept in became my office. The Demons would file in and I'd patch them up. I already had some experience what with my dad and all so my skills were up to par. The Demons started calling me Doc and the name just stuck."

Dean cleared his throat again and Hotch knew that the story was far from over. "I'd been off the rack for a week when the Angels lowered a ladder into The Pit and pulled Alistair out. I'm sure he's dead, but I don't know for a fact. It's just a hunch."

Hotch thought he might be right.

"A few days later, a fight broke out between Meg and another Demon—Midge, we called her—and Azazel ordered me to pick up the knife and take over Alistair's position. Alistair wasn't the only one who'd been in on the sessions I had when I was on the rack so I knew that Azazel was more than capable of putting me right back on. I strapped Midge down and started on her. She'd been there since before I was, but Alistair hadn't done a very good job on her. She was rebellious and, from the look on Azazel's face, it wasn't the first time she'd caused problems. I read her easily enough and I only needed two days with her before she was trained properly. It was easier for me that way. I only had three options down there. The first was to go easy on her, but then if she caused problems again she'd be right back where she started. The second was to break her so thoroughly that she didn't need a second stint on the rack…" Dean trailed off then, unable to continue.

"The third option?" Hotch asked. His voice was even despite his disgust.

Dean smiled sadly at him. "I could refuse," he said. "I chose option two. She only needed the one session. The most anyone's done on the rack under me is three stints.

"I've done a lot of bad things, Hotch," Dean continued. "And I can't ever make up for them. Three of those eleven people I gave you… I killed them. I already told you about the first. The second was an accident. It was just after Alistair left, a new Demon was added to The Pit. She looked so much like Penelope that I actually thought it was her. I was pissed when Azazel wanted me to break her in for Meg. She wanted a new _pet_," he spat the word. "I worked her over quickly, but I accidentally…" He paused. "Purposely cut a little too deep and she bled out. I knew what they did to their pets and I just couldn't let it happen to Pen. Got another week on the rack from that. Meg was mad," he explained.

"The third, we called her Pretty. She was centerfold material: blonde hair, blue eyes, the works. Demon tried to rape her about three months in. A few other Demons pulled him off—everyone knew she was mine—but he took a nice chunk out of her back. It got infected and by the time meds came in, she was too far gone. It was either kill her or let her suffer, so I killed her."

"She was yours?" Hotch questioned, his stomach turning even more at the connotation.

Dean shook his head in disgust. He'd never resorted to… alternate methods of training. He knew just how bad it was to have your spirit crushed that way. "Not in the way you're thinking. The hierarchy continued even with the low-level Demons. At the top of the food chain were the Demons in my corner, then came the vets, then the new additions. Midge, Grunt, Slash, Mouse, Scar, and Pretty were mine. They were… trained. Cherry was added later, after Pretty died. I was trying to teach him so he could help me with the medical stuff, but I never got to finish. Cas pulled me out before I could get to the in-depth training."

"Cas?" Hotch questioned. "I though you said James Novak was the one who freed you."

"Same person," Dean said. "I snooped through his car before I ditched him. He called himself Castiel, but his real name was Novak. He came in to replace the Angel in charge of The Pit about a week before I got out. I found it funny that they saw themselves as angels. I mean, we called them Angels, but only because of the wings."

"Wings?"

"Yeah. They all had these wings stitched onto their uniforms. We were in Hell so that made us the Demons and the freaks with wings were the Angels. It made sense to us, but then this geeky guy takes over for the last dick that lowered our food and supplies down and everything changes. There was this sort of hatch on the ceiling that they would open once a day to give us stuff then it would close. But when Cas took over, he left it open and just watched. It was weird at first, but we got used to it. After about a week, he started talking to me, asking me why I did what I did. When I answered, he just lowered the ladder back down and let me climb out. He took me to his car and we got the hell out of Dodge."

Hotch nodded. They were onto something. "You said he wore a uniform. Other than the wings, did you notice anything else about them?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "They looked like jazzed up scrubs for the religiously insane. 'Hope and Faith' was written on them like six times. It was weird."

They probably had enough information now to continue the investigation in earnest. Hotch stood up and left the room, intent on calling the team in to help sort through the information. He knew Strauss would have a problem with them taking the case, but Morgan especially would object strongly to anyone else taking over.

This was _Dean_. This was a member of their own team who had been hurt—tortured and twisted—and it was their job to bring his captors to justice. Despite everything he'd done, Dean was still their friend. He couldn't be held accountable for what he'd had to do to survive down there and if anyone was to blame for his actions other than the bastards that put him down there, it was Hotch. He'd given up on his friend and the guilt weighed heavily on him at the thought that if he'd just kept looking, he could have found Dean before he'd been forced to kill and torture and maim. He'd had plenty of time after all. Dean had lasted three impossibly long years before giving up. How long was it before Hotch had already decided Dean was dead? Four months? Five? If he was really honest with himself, he would have admitted that the thought had entered his mind only a week after Dean had been taken. Twenty-four hours was the norm and even a week had been generous in his mind, but Hotch had had three years to find him. That should have been plenty of time for him. Instead, he'd abandoned his friend.

These were the thoughts that ran through Hotch's mind as he left the room, but from where Dean sat watching him, all he saw was the back of a man who'd stood and left without a word. For the second time that day, tears fell from Dean's eyes. This time, it was at the thought that he had lost one of the only few friends he could remember. The anticipation of losing everyone else—Pen, the woman he thought he'd killed; Morgan, his best friend; Prentiss and JJ, the sisters he never had—killed him. Once they knew what he'd done, they would look at him with disgust just like Hotch did when he confessed to everything. He really was a Demon. Everything he touched was soiled. Even his brother would leave him.

That thought, especially, left him in an agony he hadn't felt since his first night in The Pit.


	31. Implications

Eight hours later, Pen took Dean home. He was dead on his feet and he'd barely spoken a word since he talked to Hotch. All of them had tried to get him to say something, but none had been successful. They were a bit preoccupied in their attempts, too busy thinking about the content of the interview to really try in earnest. Penelope wasn't allowed to hear the recording, but it must have been bad for him to have had this reaction. Dean had been so open, talking and joking, that having him back to the state they'd found him in was painful. She didn't like it.

Penelope had done all she could for them, tracking down Novak and finding Hope and Faith, a private medical facility in Southern Idaho. The team had taken off as soon as she made the discoveries. Hotch, Prentiss, and Rossi were working with the Nampa PD to arrest Dean's captors and rescue the other victims. Reid, Morgan, and JJ stayed in Quantico where James Novak was being expedited. So far, he was being charged with everything they could think of, though Rossi was sure that the man was more of a pawn than anything and they could get the charges against him dropped in exchange for his testimony.

Pen was tired—exhausted really—and she knew Dean was feeling the same whether he said anything or not. The others had been busy getting the case together that they hadn't really spent much time with Dean. He'd stayed in Pen's office, lying on the small couch she had in there, until she told him it was time to go.

She got him into bed without any protests and she had him take his meds. He took the Percocet this time, though he'd been steadfastly refusing it and Penelope became even more concerned. She vowed to check on him in a little while. Something wasn't right about the defeated look in his eye when he turned over to sleep.

As soon as she was gone, Dean pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He felt bad about taking it from Pen's purse, but he needed to talk to Sammy. He felt a little bit better when he saw Sam's name in her contacts. He hadn't been sure if she would have it when he'd taken the phone, but he was glad he wouldn't have to ask her for the phone number. This was private and he didn't want anyone else involved in him calling his brother. The first call rang and rang until his voicemail picked up, _This is the voicemail of Sam Winchester, please leave your name, phone number, and the nature of your call. Thank you.*beep*_

Dean hung up the phone and waited a minute before he tried again. Two rings, _This is the voicemail of Sam Win…_ He ended the call and dialed one more time. This time, there was no ring. _This is the voicemail of Sam Winchester…_. He dialed again and the call went straight to voicemail. Sam had turned his phone off. Dean hung up the phone and set it on the nightstand

His mind spun around in circles bringing up and immediately discounting scenarios that would make Sam turn off his phone like that. He could only think of one solid reason: Sam knew. They told Sam everything and he didn't want to talk to Dean anymore. It made sense. Ever since Dean had turned their dad in, Sammy was scared that he'd turned out to be just like him. He knew that mental illness had a genetic factor and that both he and his brother could just as easily become as certifiable as John had. Sammy never went to see John. Dean was the one who visited him, who knew that he'd always done what he thought was right, that he didn't know monsters weren't real. Sammy hated him. He hated that their dad was crazy. Now, he hated Dean because he thought Dean was crazy. Maybe he was. No sane person would have done the things Dean had done. He'd been around killers enough to know that—even before The Pit. There was no other explanation he could think of. Sammy hated him. If it had gone to voicemail immediately the first time, there could have been another reason, but he'd ignored Dean's calls and turned off his phone when it looked like he would keep calling.

For the first time since he'd come out of The Pit, he wished that he could stop remembering. He knew now why he'd chosen to forget. It was much easier living with his choices without knowing who his brother was and how much he loved him. He'd known then that it would only break him more. This was an even worse pain than he could have imagined. There was a reason he'd chosen to give up all hope in The Pit. It would kill him in the end. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, he thought. Then, at the very least, he wouldn't have to face the disappointed look in Sammy's eyes when he told Dean how much he hated him.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Penelope busied herself, cleaning the living room. With everything that had gone down over the last couple of weeks, she'd let her apartment fall to pieces. There were case files and books and movies and clothes scattered everywhere. Her home was normally cluttered, but this was just ridiculous. She worked hard until every surface was scoured and cleaned. It took two hours, but by the time she finished, the sun had set completely and Penelope was ready for bed.

She checked in on Dean and her heart dropped. She couldn't help the scream that came from her and she dove immediately for the cell phone on his nightstand to call 911. She kneeled down to check on the broken man collapsed on the floor, lying in a pool of his own vomit. His lips were blue and, if it weren't for the small, jerky movements and labored breathing, she would have thought he was already dead. He trembled, twitching every so often, but he didn't respond to his name when she called.

The ambulance arrived in record time. Eight minutes later, they had Dean up on a stretcher, already treating him.

Running after them, she picked up her cell phone and called Morgan, setting up her Bluetooth so she could talk and drive at the same time.

"Hey, Baby Girl," Morgan answered.

"Dean's going to the hospital," she said, not bothering with formalities.

Morgan could hear the tears in her voice and he was instantly alert. Whatever happened, it couldn't have been good.

"I called an ambulance," she continued. "I'm following them now."

"What happened?" His voice was urgent.

"He… he tried to kill himself," Pen said. Her voice broke and tears kept falling in spades. "Why would he do that?" she asked to no one in particular.

"I don't know, Baby Girl," he said sadly. "He's been through a lot—a lot more than we could imagine. All that's important right now is making sure he gets the help he needs." Morgan paused before he continued. "Hotch thinks… well, we all think that the best thing for him is to put him somewhere where he can have full-time care. He said a lot to Hotch today and it was hard to hear, but I think he was holding quite a bit of it back. No matter how good we are, he needs a lot more help than we can give him."

"I know," she said. The hospital was just in sight. "But he was doing so good, Derek. Why now? I mean, he knew that he could talk to me. He _did_ talk to me and it seemed to make things better."

Morgan didn't have an answer for her. "Reid and I will be by later after we interview Novak. You'll stay with him?" he asked, unnecessarily.

"Of course," she said. She pulled into the parking lot and rushed into the building. "I'm here," she told him. "Can you call Hotch for me? I'll call you back in a little while with an update."

"Yeah. I'll call as soon as we hang up. Thanks, Penelope," he said and the line went dead.

It wasn't long before they let Penelope into Dean's room. He slept soundly, but his wrists were cuffed to the rails and she couldn't help but hate the way they felt the need to tie him down. She knew it was for his own good, as well as the good of those around him, but she wanted nothing more than to release her friend from the bonds and pull him into a hug. She didn't do either.

Instead, she pulled up a chair and sat to the side of his bed, waiting.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Sam laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Lately, the amobarbital hadn't been working as well as he wanted it to. He thought that having Dean back would make the craving go away, but if anything it had just made it worse. Memories of his childhood came flooding into his mind and he couldn't hold them back as easily as he had when Dean was gone. He was _happy_ his brother was back, dammit. Why couldn't he just be happy in general?

The thoughts roaming through his head were getting too philosophical. He filled a syringe and settled back to ride the almost-instant high. Sam quickly capped and disposed of the needle before he became too entrenched in his mind to do so. He'd been mostly clean since Dean came back, but it was getting harder and harder to resist. Hell, he didn't even want to resist. There was nothing like the blank slate it offered, the total and complete 'unable to feel or think a damn thing' feeling that he wanted more than anything. Dean was fine with Penelope and everything would be cleared out of his system by the time he had to be at work in the morning.

To his left, his phone rang loudly. He knew that the meds had really kicked in when he couldn't seem to grasp what he was supposed to do next. Belatedly, his hand pawed at the table, trying to find the cell phone with little success. By the time he had it in his hands, the phone was quiet. He made out Garcia's name under the text informing him of a missed call. He thought about calling her back, possibly talking to his brother before they went to sleep, but decided against it. More likely than not, they'd be able to tell something was up by the sound of his voice. Ever since his brother's memories returned, he seemed to be able to tune himself right back into Sam's head. It's like he had Sam-o-Vision. Ha! Sam-o-Vision. He chuckled at that and let his hand, and the phone, drop onto the bed so he could stare back up at the ceiling.

He'd spent a lot of time charting his ceiling over the years. There were a couple of cracks in it, small ones that were both less than a foot long. They were slanted away from each other and, if he squinted his eyes enough, they looked like eyes staring down at him. He knew they were just cracks and he should stop obsessing over them or they'd give him nightmares, but he had worse things to dream about than some stupid cracks in his ceiling.

It took him a moment to register the sound of the front door opening. His first thought was that it was his brother and Garcia, but the lack of noise made it seem unlikely. Garcia's staccato footsteps usually gave him a headache despite the affection he had for the tech analyst and, unless he was trying to be quiet, Dean's steps were usually more like boot stomps than actual footsteps. If it was them, there should have been much more noise. Even as his brain sounded the alarm, Sam was loathe to remove himself from his bed to investigate. His heart wanted to flood adrenaline through his system and his limbs wanted to flex ready for an attack, but his body was officially closed for business and Sam just couldn't see any reason to worry about it.

Two men entered his bedroom. Had it not been for the masks, they would have been dressed inconspicuously in their dark jeans, t-shirts, and thick jackets. Their hands were clad in gloves, expensive leather ones that said they did this often enough that it was worth the investment.

Sam smiled up at them thinking at how stupid they would look having to explain their presence in his house while wearing those ridiculous ski masks. It was more than a cliché, it was possibly the worst thing you could do when breaking into someone's house. You should be relaxed about it, chill. That way, if someone came along that you didn't expect, you could chalk it all up to a misunderstanding and be on your way. He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until one of the men responded.

"Whatever, wiseass. He look drunk to you?" the first man asked his partner.

"I don't smell it on him. I'm guessing drugs. What are you on, Sammy?"

Sam smiled lazily. "My bed." His brain kept screaming at him to do something, but it was failing miserably. He just didn't care.

The phone rang loudly again. The first man grabbed it off of the bed before Sam could answer it. The ringing stopped and Sam assumed the phone had been turned off completely.

Both men visibly relaxed and Sam also pointed that out. "You shouldn't relax like that," he said. "Until I've been properly subdued." He also thought the word 'subdued' was funny, but he stifled that laugh, just smiling even wider at its use.

"I don't think you could get much more subdued, kid," the second man said.

Sam thought he was probably right.

They each grabbed one of Sam's arms and lifted him to his feet. He was stable enough that he didn't need them to keep him upright, though it was a near thing. Sam smiled thinking how lucky he was that he was facing both of them and his arms were already intertwined with theirs. It would make things much easier for him especially because he wasn't even sure he had the strength to take one of them out, let alone two. Quickly, in a move his brother taught him on his eighth birthday, Sam slid both of his arms up—one on each man—and grasped their throats just above the collar bone. He allowed himself and his muscular six foot four inch frame to shove them backward onto the floor. Just as he'd planned, he fell on them, using their necks to catch himself. The man to his right was down for the count and unresponsive. The man on his left struggled for a bit but Sam's hold was relentless. Soon, he too was unconscious.

Sam rolled off of them and stared back at the ceiling, chuckling. "I told you guys not to relax until I was subdued." He really liked that word. He needed to use it more often.

Sam wanted to go to sleep, but the floor was uncomfortable and he was sure he didn't want the men to wake up before him. It took him a few minutes to stand and make it to his bed, but when he did he flopped down and reveled in the comfort of his mattress. Absentmindedly, he turned his cell phone back on and dialed Prentiss's phone number.

"Prentiss," she answered.

"Did anyone ever tell you that answering the phone with your name is just weird? I'd like a 'hello' every once in a while. Just saying."

"Are you drunk, Sam?" she asked. "I don't have time for this."

"Drugs, actually," he said. "Took them earlier and it's kinda hard to think."

"What?!" she asked incredulously.

"I called for a reason. I'm just trying to remember what it is. Give me a second." Sam looked over and saw the two men on the floor. "Oh, I remember," he said. "There's two guys here. The broke into my house and tried to…" he chuckled, "'subdue' me."

"Oh, God," Prentiss said. "What happened?"

"I didn't like them. One of them called me Sammy," he said. "No one's allowed to call me Sammy—except maybe Dean. No, not even Dean." He could hear her talking to someone in the background, but he didn't mind. "Okay," he amended. "Only Dean. They're on my floor right now," he said distractedly. "I'm on my bed though so I definitely came out on top. My floor isn't very comfortable to sleep on."

"I'm sending someone over, Sam… Sam?" she asked when he didn't respond.

"'M here."

"I need you to stay awake," she said seriously. "Can you do that?"

Sam yawned. "I'm tired," he said unnecessarily. "I'll see you in the morning." Their conversation and the two men on the floor were already forgotten.

"No, Sam—"

"'Night Prentiss." He closed his phone and let it fall to the bed beside him. Sam closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	32. Seal Twenty-Four

Morgan stood in the interrogation room, letting Reid take point. The man in the hot seat—James Xavier Novak born August 20th, 1974 in Boston, Massachusetts—stared blankly at them. Morgan tried the 'bad cop' routine, but James sat with a blank expression on his face and said, "there is no need to use force. I will speak willingly." Morgan was weary about questioning this man. He didn't speak colloquially, preferring to use a more formal speech pattern that hinted at a strict religious background. The fact that he continually referred to himself as Castiel rather than James added to Morgan's presumption that Novak was… a half-bath short of a condo.

"Mr. Novak," Reid began.

"I am Castiel," he corrected.

"There are some pretty hefty charges being brought against you," Morgan continued. "Kidnapping, false imprisonment, torture… the list goes on."

"I have been made aware," Castiel replied.

"Then you know that you're going to go to prison for a very long time," Morgan said.

"We can help you," Reid interjected. He wasn't playing the role of 'good cop' as much as he was just being himself. Though the man in front of him showed no remorse for the things he'd done, but Reid didn't believe he was heavily involved in whatever the Cult of Seals was working to accomplish. "All you need to do is tell us what you know about Hope and Faith Medical Institute and we can make a deal."

Castiel shook his head. "There is no need for 'deals.' Nothing I know of can contribute to your investigation of the hospital."

"You can't be sure of—" Morgan began, but Castiel cut him off.

"I do not have time to continue with your inquiries." Castiel showed more emotion than either of the two agents had seen so far. Though his face remained impassive, it was obvious he was angry. "They are working to break another seal as we speak and we must act to prevent it."

"Wait," Reid said, surprised. "Another seal?"

"Yes. The apocalypse is nearly upon us. Another of Lucifer's seals is to be broken and we cannot allow it to continue."

"How many?" Morgan asked.

"I do not understand."

"How many seals have broken?" He asked more clearly.

"Twenty-three," Castiel claimed. "If I am unable to contact Anna before sunrise, another seal will break and Lucifer will be that much closer to his release."

"Do you know which seals they've broken?" Reid asked.

Castiel nodded. "Yes."

The two agents shared a look. They didn't believe in the apocalypse, but the Cult of Seals apparently did and if they were killing people to break these so-called 'seals' then the BAU needed to do everything it could to stop them. With Castiel's help, they would be able to gather enough evidence to lock the cult members away for a long time.

"Tell us about the seal," Reid said.

Castiel considered the agent for a moment before answering, "Rafael is in transit to Alaska. I was informed prior to my arrest of his destination and he must be stopped."

"We'll stop it," Morgan assured. "We just need to know what it is we're stopping."

"We are stopping the Angels from freeing Lucifer," he replied exasperated.

"We understand," Reid said calmly. "What we don't know is which seal they mean to break."

"Raphael means to break the four hundred twelfth seal. So it is written that as the men cast their nets, they turned their backs to God and as faith turned to sight, so shall it be taken. He means to blind fifteen fisherman tomorrow at sunrise."

"Do you know where?" Morgan asked.

Castiel nodded. "The Upper Kenai River."

Reid rose to follow Morgan out of the room, but he was stopped by Castiel's voice.

"Tell me," he said. "How did you know to look for me?"

Reid thought about how much he wanted to tell the man in front of him. He decided on the truth. "You helped free a friend of ours," Reid said.

"Doc?" Castiel questioned. For the first time since he'd been in the room, the muscles in his face moved. He creased his eyebrows together in confusion. "You found him?"

Reid nodded.

"Is he alright?" Castiel asked earnestly.

"He will be," Reid answered.

"He must be," Castiel informed him. "If the apocalypse begins, he will be the only one who can stop it." At Reid's confused look, Castiel continued. "The Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can finish it."

With that, Castiel turned to face forward, subtly dismissing the agent.

Reid left the man to sit in the room alone while he contemplated what he'd been told. Morgan was on the phone with the FBI field office in Anchorage trying to stop the attack on the Kenai River. He could hear the frustration in the agent's voice about being transferred to another department. "You should have JJ contact them," Reid suggested.

"Yeah. I was starting to think the same thing," he said, hanging up the phone and walking to JJ's office.

Reid's mind turned in circles, trying to decipher what the man had said. He recognized Dean as the 'Righteous Man.' He'd heard the interview recording and knew that the Cult had succeeded in using Dean to break the first seal to start their version of the apocalypse. If Novak claimed that Dean was the only one who could stop it, then it was safe to assume that a target would be painted right on the back of Dean's head. They would want Dean dead as quickly as possible. Immediately, his mind went to the thought of what would happen to Garcia should the Cult attempt something.

Reid quickly dialed Garcia's number and waited while it rang. The usually peppy tech analyst answered with an unusually morose, "Reid?"

"How's he doing, Garcia?" Reid asked.

"He's sleeping," she said softly so as not to disturb Dean. "The doctors pumped his stomach and gave him something to counteract the pills he took. I'm just waiting for him to wake up."

"Hang in there, Garcia," he said. "We're almost done interviewing Novak and then Morgan and I are going to head there. I'm not sure, but I think our Unsubs may attempt something so I'm going to post a security detail outside of Dean's room."

"What?" Garcia asked panicked, but still trying to stay quiet.

"You should be fine there on your own for now. If they do plan on trying anything, they still need to find him so it'll buy us some time. Like I said, Morgan and I will stop by after we finish interviewing Novak."

"You've been working yourselves to the bone trying to get this case solved. Go home, Reid. Get some sleep and come in the morning. Dean probably won't wake up for a while anyway and your guys will keep us safe until then."

"Alright, Garcia," Reid said, trying not to sound indignant. "I'll try to convince Morgan, but either way, I'm going to stop by. Is there anything you want me to bring for you?"

"Nah, sugar," she answered. "I'm okay. Just a little tired. I might try getting some sleep. There's an open bed next to Dean's that's calling my name."

"Good," Reid said. "Get some sleep and I'll see you later on tonight."

"Will do, Boy Genius," she said before the line went dead.

Morgan came out of JJ's office with a smile on his face. "They're going to send a team out to intercept Rafael. What did Garcia say?" he asked.

"Dean's sleeping. She said not to come tonight, but I want to stop by anyway. Novak said something that makes me weary about leaving them on their own."

"What did he say?" Morgan asked.

"He said 'the Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can finish it.'"

"Cryptic," Morgan said.

Reid smiled. "I agree, but if our Unsubs believe that Dean is the only person in the way of bringing on the apocalypse, then he's in danger."

"I'll put someone on them for the night until we can get Dean transferred."

"Already done," Reid said. "Do you still want to come with me later? I plan on staying at the hospital tonight."

"There's no way I'm going home," Morgan said. "Dean isn't the only one who needs someone there. I'm sure Garcia's having a hell of a time trying to keep things together. A visit will do her some good."

Reid agreed. "Do you want to continue with Novak's interview?" A part of him wanted to let Novak stew for the night, but he was aware that the thought stemmed from his worry over his friends. It would be better for them to finish the interview tonight. He left it up to Morgan, though.

Morgan nodded. "I want to know who this 'Anna' person is and whether they're working with others out there."

"I want to know how he was able to figure out which seal they plan on breaking. According to Sam, there are six-hundred possible seals. It's nearly impossible to infer which they are going after next. Either Novak has someone working closely on the inside, or their network is much larger than we've anticipated."

It was a chilling thought.

They entered the interrogation room for the second time. Reid was surprised to see that Novak hadn't budged an inch since they left him a few minutes ago.

"You have sent someone to intercept Rafael," Novak said as soon as Reid was seated in front of him. Morgan stayed standing by the door, still letting Reid take point in the interrogation. Novak seemed more open to speaking with the younger agent.

Reid ignored the statement. "Can you tell me how you know which seal this Rafael is after?"

"I can."

Silence.

Reid suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Tell me," he said.

"Gabriel. He has not been the most cooperative ally, but his information is sound."

"Gabriel?" Morgan asked. "As in the archangel?"

Castiel nodded. "The same."

"How can we get in contact with Gabriel?" Reid asked.

"You cannot," Castiel informed him. "Not if he does not wish to be found. Believe me. I have tried."

"The last time he contacted you," Morgan started. "How did he do it? Did he call you?"

"He found me," Castiel said. "In my hotel room as he always does."

"He knew where you were?" Reid asked.

"Yes."

"Did you tell him where you were staying?" Morgan asked.

"No. I have long since given up in my attempts at explaining Gabriel's abilities. Suffice it to say, he is aware of my location."

Morgan and Reid exchanged a glance. That didn't sound good.

"Do you believe he'll come here to find you?" Reid tried not to sound worried.

Castiel shook his head. "I do not. He has already informed me of Rafael's location. There should be no further need to contact me. He does not wish to involve himself. In his words, he is content to sit back and watch the prize fight."

"Prize fight?"

"Between Michael and Lucifer," Castiel said. The 'obviously' was implied.

Neither agent knew how to continue their line of questioning. Fortunately, Castiel continued without prompting.

"After the seals have broken, Michael and Lucifer will seize their earthly vessels and engage in a battle that will destroy half of the planet. It is of the upmost importance that Lucifer is never freed from his cage."

Morgan couldn't think of anything to say. Reid on the other hand found a small facet to pursue and he took it. "Earthly vessels?"

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "Angels, unlike Demons, need permission to enter a human host. Not all humans are capable of housing an angel's grace. For beings as powerful as Michael and Lucifer, they will need their true vessels in order to be at maximum capacity for their fight."

"Do you know who Michael's and Lucifer's true vessels are?" Reid asked.

"I do," Castiel said, nodding once. "They are brothers, I believe, descendants of Cain and Abel."

"Names," Morgan prompted.

"Dean and Sam Winchester."


	33. The Second Time

Penelope was roused from her sleep just after midnight. After her and Reid had talked, a couple of suits stationed themselves outside of the hospital room door. She felt much safer with them out there. Ever since she'd arrived at the hospital, there had been something nagging at her. She couldn't place exactly what it was. It was a prick at the back of her neck that something bad was going to happen.

It was a feeling she had quite often—usually when her team was out in the field apprehending a dangerous Unsub—and it wasn't always reliable. Reid's claim that they might be in danger had just increased the sensation. It had taken her longer than she hoped it would to fall asleep and it was fitful at that. It wasn't nightmares per say, more so the thought that someone would be able to sneak into the room and do away with Dean if she slept too deeply. So she tried her best to sleep lightly, waking to every small noise just in case.

This time, she woke to the sound of the door opening. Light came in from the hallway, partially blinding Penelope until her eyes could adjust. It was just the attending nurse—Betty, her nametag said—coming to check on Dean.

"A couple of members of the FBI are here to see you," she said when she saw Penelope awake. "I wouldn't mind having them here, but Jamstraw is stubborn and won't let them in past visiting hours. They want to talk to you though so I said I'd get you."

Penelope yawned and sat up in the hospital bed. It was uncomfortable, but since she'd been moving so much, she wasn't as sore as she could have been. "Thanks, Betty," she said.

"They're in the front lobby. Jamstraw won't even let them past the front desk," she said with an eye roll and an amused smirk. "I think it would help if you talked to her."

Penelope found herself smiling in return when she thought of the older nurse she'd had to deal with before she could stay with Dean. It had taken getting the doctor involved before the nurse had grudgingly allowed her to stay. Even so, Jamstraw had made her protests known. Penelope knew the older woman was a stickler for the rules, but she'd been less inclined than she normally was to soothe her bruised ego. She was too worried about Dean to really care.

Betty left and Penelope put her shoes on. With a quick check to make sure Dean was alright—he was _still_ sleeping; at least it was peaceful this time—she left the hospital room. One man was posted at his door. His partner was supposedly getting coffee or going to the restroom. As long as someone was on watch—preferably someone able to better protect Dean than a middle-aged technical analyst—she was content to leave Dean alone for a little while to appease the other members of her team. It had to be hard on all of them having Dean back in the hospital while they were trying to close the case they'd had open in their desks for years.

She took the elevator down to the lobby and was there in just a few minutes. She didn't see Morgan or Reid so she walked up to the front desk—up to the infamous Nurse Jamstraw who sat with a too-sweet smile on her face—and asked where they were.

"Who?" the nurse asked.

"Betty said that a couple of members of my team were here to see me. Agents Morgan and Reid, FBI?"

"No one's been here but me," she told Penelope. "Besides, visiting hours are over," she said pointedly.

Penelope's bad feeling returned tenfold. She pulled out her cell phone to call Morgan just in case Jamstraw was lying. "Hey, Penelope," Morgan said. "Something happen with Dean?"

"He's still sleeping," she informed him. "Did you and Reid finish interviewing Novak?"

"Just finished five minutes ago. Reid and I are packing up our stuff now to go over there. It's likely that Dean's a bigger target than we thought and it'll be better if he has a couple more agents on him just in case."

"So you aren't at the hospital now?" she asked worriedly.

"No… Garcia, what happened?"

"Nothing," she assured him. "The nurse came and got me saying you and Reid were in the lobby, but when I talked to the nurse at the front desk she said no one was here. I'm on my way back up to Dean's room."

"We're leaving right now," Morgan said. "Reid and I can be there in ten minutes."

Penelope _almost_ smiled at picturing Morgan breaking every speed limit known to man, but her worry kept it back. The elevator came right when she pushed the button and she reached the hospital room in record time. The agent she'd left in charge of Dean was slumped down in his seat, unconscious. The other was nowhere in sight. She opened the door to an empty room.

"He's gone," she told Morgan.

"What?!" he nearly shouted into the phone.

"Dean isn't here," Penelope said. "He's gone."

She couldn't help the sobs that racked her chest. Dean was gone. For the second time, she was scared that she'd lost her friend.


	34. Everything's Alright

Things were not going well for Hotch. Adam Milligan, known as Michael to the hospital staff, was missing. No one knew where he went. The day before Hotch, Prentiss, and Rossi arrived in Nampa, he'd vanished into thin air. His wallet and keys were gone, but all of his clothes were still in the closet. There was no sign of a struggle or any indication that he'd been kidnapped. Milligan was their Unsub and they were operating under the assumption that he'd known they were coming and ran.

Garcia had been in the office, working her computers nonstop since Dean was taken. They had the hospital. They should have already had the victims. But they didn't. The Unsubs were smart and held their prisoners at a secondary location that Garcia was hell-bent on finding. She didn't care that she was operating on only three hours of restless sleep. She wouldn't rest, she said, until Dean was back and safe. She wasn't giving up on him again. Hotch agreed. They'd only had him back for a little while, but he was damned if he was going to slip back into his pessimistic viewpoint and believe the worst again. Dean was alive, dammit, and the team was going to find him this time.

After Garcia had informed them of Dean's disappearance, Hotch immediately though about getting the information from Novak. He'd been the one to rescue Dean; he must have an idea of where they were being kept. Novak had proven uncooperative thus far and Morgan was getting impatient. He was just as frustrated as Hotch was and he didn't handle it as well. Reid had been the one to tell Hotch that Morgan needed a break and Hotch had been forced to send Morgan home—over the phone no less—for a shower and a nap, telling him to return a few hours later. The man needed to calm down or Novak would be completely useless, not that he was forthcoming in the first place.

It was Novak's motives for remaining silent that threw Hotch. The man claimed that he was trying to stop the Angels from bringing on the apocalypse and he was more than willing to help them with information regarding the mythical seals. Already, they had Donald Finnerman—the Archangel Rafael—in custody who was singing like a canary about the seals that he and the others had broken. He'd refused a lawyer, claiming not to need one, that he only spoke the truth. As if believing he was an archangel wasn't enough, Finnerman was proud and arrogant. He was tight-lipped about future plans, but nothing kept him from talking to anyone who would listen about the men he'd killed and how important their mission was. There had been plenty to make quite a few arrests, though none of them were as open and honest as the archangel.

Novak was also open about the cult and the seals, but the prisoners were off limits. According to Novak, the Demons in Perdition must stay where they could atone for their sins. Doc had been the only exception. The others were filled with iniquity that could only be abolished by time and solitude. Help came in various forms, he said. It did not always mean kindness.

So there was no hint at a location where Milligan could have held his prisoners. There were plenty of clues to follow and people to arrest and interrogate, but according to the two members they'd managed to crack, only four people knew of Perdition's location: Rafael, Castiel, Uriel, and Michael. With two of them in custody and the others missing, the only hope they had was for them to find some connection that could lead them to their friend.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Morgan erupted.

Sam flinched, but he didn't respond. He'd only woken up fifteen minutes ago, but the agents were already here to take his statement. Morgan and Reid stood on either side of his hospital bed. The senior agent didn't seem to want to focus on the matter at hand, instead looking at the track marks on the inside of his left elbow. Sam moved his sleeve to cover them—he'd always hated the scars, but it had been worth it to just cover them with long sleeves and hope a need would never arise for him to remove his shirt in public. This time, though, there was no hiding them. He remembered telling Prentiss that he'd taken the drugs and, now that the evidence was staring the two FBI agents in the face, there was no doubting what he'd been doing last night while Dean was trying to call him before his suicide attempt. Honestly, there wasn't anything Morgan could say that would make Sam feel worse than he already did. He seemed intent on trying though.

"Your _brother_ just spent four years at the bottom of some pit and you were, what? Shooting up?"

"Morgan," Reid started.

"No, Reid. I want to know what was going through his mind. Dean just came back from the dead. He tried to _kill himself_ last night! And that was _before_ he'd been kidnapped. But I guess Sam was just too busy—"

"That's enough, Derek," Reid snapped.

The agent looked at his younger counterpart, surprised at both the use of his first name and the tone he'd taken. Morgan immediately looked repentant. It had been a long few days—weeks, years—and he was riling himself up. He should have listened to Hotch and gone home instead of accompanying Reid to the hospital. "I'm sorry," he told Sam. Morgan looked at Reid, ashamed. The kid knew what Sam was going through and it was likely that he'd taken everything Morgan said to heart. He was such an ass. "I'll go grab us some coffee." He made a quick escape, giving Sam and Reid some time to themselves.

When Morgan was gone, Reid closed the door to give them some privacy.

Sam was too self-conscious to say anything and Reid understood—more than Sam knew, he understood. "You need help," Reid started when he realized Sam was intent on ignoring him. "I'll get you help."

"You don't—"

"Actually, I do. I understand perfectly," Reid cut him off. He unbuttoned the cuff over his left wrist and rolled his sleeve up to reveal light scars matching Sam's fresh ones. "It took a while, but I had my team to help me. I'm probably not the best person to offer help, but I know that it's hard to go at it alone. If you want my help, you have it."

Sam smiled politely, throwing up his walls to lock Reid out. "Thanks," he said. "But I'm okay."

"No," Reid said. "You're not."

Morgan returned then, carrying a small tray with their coffee on it. Reid rolled his sleeve back down and re-buttoned it before taking his coffee and drowning it in sugar. Sam drank his black. They all turned their attention back to Dean. Morgan pressed Sam to get his statement about the intruders. When they were finished, Reid promised himself that he would find a way to help Sam whether the man wanted it or not. He'd already let his friend slip away from them twice. The last thing he was going to do was leave Dean's brother to deal with everything alone again. He might even enlist Prentiss's help. He knew they'd gotten close after Dean had been kidnapped in Oregon. She knew Sam better than Reid did, would be able to help him better than Reid could.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Castiel stared up at the ceiling of his cell. He was alone for now. The interview with the two agents had not been as fruitful as he would have hoped. He knew that he was safe at least from the far-reaching hands of the Cult of Seals. What he was afraid of was that Anna was in danger. She was unaware of his situation and when he did not appear for their appointment, she would be forced to continue with their plans alone. It wasn't that she was incapable of operating without him. It was more so the fact that, since she had rescued him that night nearly ten years ago, he had vowed to repay her in any way possible.

After Doc had been saved—and had disappeared into thin air, never to be seen again, though he had apparently turned up in Virginia somehow—Castiel went immediately to Anna to request her help. He didn't know what to do. He could not return to his brothers or his work. No longer was he the soldier of God he'd been trained to be. Castiel was a traitor. He had defied orders when he raised the Righteous Man from Perdition. Still, he could not bring himself to regret his actions. Doc had been a good man. He had been given what he deserved: freedom. His crimes, his sins, were absolved. There had been no reason to allow a good man to continue suffering. Even God is merciful sometimes—not that Castiel counted himself as God, but all creatures are molded in his image so it was only equitable that Castiel could be merciful as well.

Thankfully, once Anna discovered Michael's true goal, she joined Castiel in his mission to prevent the apocalypse from coming to fruition. He and Anna fell from grace together and she had proven the most capable of partners. It had been her idea to include the Archangel Gabriel, though it had been hard to convince him of the urgency of the situation. From there, Balthazar had joined almost immediately. Being a Keeper, he knew all of Michael's plans and it had been easy for them to thwart the Angels' plans to break the seals. They had been successful nearly a dozen times. There was only so quickly they could travel, after all, and their resources were not unlimited. So far, they had only been able to save a handful of people from various sacrificial rituals and unnamed horrors. Still, they were losing.

From the tensed shoulders of the young agent he'd spoken to, they hadn't been able to stop Rafael from breaking the twenty-fourth seal. That meant a dozen fisherman were now without sight, all because Castiel hadn't been careful enough in his attempts to avoid suspicion. He berated himself for his carelessness, but there was nothing he could do now but hope that the Righteous Man was truly capable of saving them all.


	35. Return to The Pit

When Dean woke, he was back in The Pit. This, in and of itself, was strange. He would have expected death. Why did they bring him here? He couldn't think of a reasonable explanation.

He didn't know how long he'd been out of it, but with the amount of stubble on his chin, it seemed to be only a day or so. If it weren't for the hospital gown, he would have sworn that escaping had all just been a dream brought on by everything he'd been repressing. It wasn't a dream, though, he knew that. He also knew that things were different now. This wasn't the same as when he woke in The Pit the first time. He wasn't tied to the bed. There was no one here to torture him into submission. As a matter of fact, the last thing he wanted was to bow to anyone ever again. He didn't have any hope of getting out, but he didn't give a damn. He was leaving this place once and for all, even if it meant leaving his body behind.

"You're awake," a voice to his left said. It was a testament to how easily he'd adapted to the outside world that he barely thought to shift into a fighting stance when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Cherry?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, Doc," Cherry said. "It's me. Most of the Demons thought you were dead meat. Surprised the hell outta us when they lowered you back in."

"How long ago?"

"About an hour or so ago, I think."

"Things work the same down here?" Dean asked.

"Ever since that Angel took you out, we haven't seen him. The other one's been lowering down the food and supplies."

If that was the only difference, then they might have a chance.

"I need to speak with Azazel," Dean said, moving towards the door. Cherry's grimace stopped him. "What, Cherry?" It was a tone he knew the Demon would respond to.

"Azazel's dead," he said. "Meg killed him right after you left. She's been in charge since then. When the Angel lowered you back down, she wanted to kill you too, but Midge and Grunt convinced her to keep you alive until you could fix her shoulder."

"What's wrong with her shoulder?" Dean asked, slipping immediately into the roll of Doc. It should have worried him just how easily he made the transition, but it didn't.

"Dislocated, I think. We never worked on joints and bones before you left so I've been scared to set it."

Dean nodded. It was just the opportunity he needed. "I have a plan to get us out of here, Cherry," Dean said.

Cherry's eyes widened, but he stayed quiet.

"It'll work, but I need to deal with Meg first. Get Mouse, Grunt, Slash, and Scar and tell them to gather the Demons for an announcement. I want them quiet and listening when I'm finished with Meg."

Cherry nodded his compliance.

"One more thing," Dean said. "Ask Sunny how long until breakfast." The Demon always seemed to know just when that hatch would open.

When Cherry just stood there, Dean hardened his voice. "Go. Now." Cherry was out the door in two seconds flat.

Dean put on the loose-fitting pair of jeans they'd taken off of Azazel after he'd kicked the bucket. It wasn't uncommon for them to strip the bodies before tossing them in the morgue. Supplies were short so they'd take all they could get. Dean was just happy that no one decided to make bandages or slings out of them before he'd arrived. There wasn't a shirt for him to wear, but it wasn't cold enough that he needed one just yet. Hopefully, they'd be out before it became an issue. He grabbed the things he'd need to set Meg's shoulder and slipped the scalpel into his pocket, making sure to angle it so it wouldn't be seen. Just in case.

He went straight to Azazel's—_Meg's_—room and knocked, three quick reps, on the door.

Midge opened the door and let him in.

"Cherry has instructions for you," he told her. She nodded and rushed out into The Pit.

"Doc," Meg sneered.

"Meg." He didn't return the vehemence, but neither was he forthcoming. "Your shoulder?" he asked.

She shrugged off the small jacket to expose her bruised and swollen shoulder. Cherry had been right in his assumption that it was dislocated, but with the peppered bruises down her arm as well, Doc assumed that the bone may also have a fracture. It looked like she had taken quite a bit of damage, probably from when she took the throne from Azazel.

"It's dislocated," Dean said, mostly to antagonize her. She hated when people stated the obvious.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"It's going to hurt quite a bit when I pop it back in. You'll need to keep it immobilized for a while after. Here," he handed her two pills. "Take these. It won't help with the pain, but it will keep the swelling down."

Meg took the pills and swallowed them down with a small swig of water.

"Good. Take your belt off and bite down on it." When she had done so, he continued. "Angle your torso like this. Press down against the chair. Good. Ready?"

Meg nodded.

"On the count of three. One—" He shoved the joint back into its socket, probably causing more damage than he would have liked.

Meg screamed, but it was short lived. Her shoulder was reduced to more of a throbbing sensation than actual pain in a matter of seconds. She'd had worse. It was nothing she couldn't handle.

Dean took off his hospital gown and quickly fashioned it into a tourniquet to hold her arm in place. When he was done, he got down on his knees and looked her in the eye. "You remember the outside?" he asked.

Meg was the only Demon in The Pit he knew who'd kept her name. No one talked about the outside and, after a while, it was easier to forget there was one. She thought about lying to him, but what was the point? Doc always knew when you were lying. "Yeah," she said. "I remember."

"Good," he said. "I'll need your help. I know how to get us out of here."

Meg was shocked. "You had a way out and you never said anything?!" Maybe she was more angry than shocked.

Dean shrugged. "I never looked for a way out before," he said. "I was content to just stay here, playing doctor until I died."

"What changed?" she asked. For once, she wasn't her usual condescending self. She seemed genuinely interested.

"I remembered," he said.

There was a short pause before she answered. "What's the plan?"

Doc's smile was vicious, nothing even close to an expression he would have worn when he'd been Dean. This smile… it was filled with a maliciousness that could only come from years in The Pit.

"You'll love it," he said. "Trust me."

When he finished relaying his plan, Meg's face lit up like the fourth of July. Her smile mirrored his own. All that was left was to get the Demons on board.


	36. Office of Supreme Genius

Garcia typed furiously on her keyboard, looking into everything she could think of to connect the hospital to their earlier profile. Finding out that Hope and Faith Medical Institute was the base of operations for the Cult of Seals had come as a bit of a shock. All of their earlier discoveries pointed to a religious group that possibly housed practitioners at a church. They'd been looking for a commune or a type of nunnery. Their thoughts were so far from a hospital that Garcia hadn't thought to check for one. This time, though, she delved into the hospital's past with ferocity, looking for something—anything—that could lead them to their Unsub.

Twenty years ago, the building that was now a private medial institute used to be a psychiatric facility run by a Dr. Herbert Mendez. Dr. Mendez and his wife currently resided out of the country so Garcia checked them off of the list for now. She wanted to concentrate her efforts domestically. She suspected Dean was still in-house and, until it was proven otherwise, she would do her best to focus on Idaho and its surrounding areas.

After a reporter exposed the decrepit state of the hospital, the Glennan Bratwood Psychiatric Facility lost all of its funding. The board of directors dispersed, the patients were transferred, the doctors fired, and Dr. Mendez and his wife went bankrupt. Trying to salvage some of their losses, the property was put on the market and sold to one Carver Edlund—formerly known as Charles Shurley, having changed his name just after his eighteenth birthday. Edlund's juvenile record was sealed and Garcia worked at it until everything was splayed out in front of her. The word 'illegal' had never really made much difference to her. Now that Dean was at stake, she completely rid the word from her vocabulary, not caring what she had to do to get him back.

Shurley—Edlund—grew up in foster care, shuffling from one house to the next until he ended up in Nampa, living with two foster parents, Mary and Joseph Cathedra. Social workers reported that the family was devoutly Catholic and that Shurley was homeschooled. From report cards and his interview notes, she knew he was smart and resourceful, knowing several languages including Latin and Greek.

Garcia flagged that and continued reading. She assumed that Enochian was also on his list of known languages.

After he turned eighteen, Shurley changed his name to Carver Edlund for reasons unknown and received a scholarship to the University of California in Los Angeles where he held a double major in both theology and cultural anthropology. He graduated at twenty-six with a Masters in the former and a PhD in the latter before adopting a son, Adam Milligan. Shurley moved from California back to his original home in Idaho following the death of his foster parents when Adam was thirteen. Other than a hefty donation to their local church, the Cathedras' living will and testament left everything to Edlund, including his current residence in Nampa.

A few more taps on the keyboard and the name of the church appeared on her screen: Saint Teresa's Parish, just ten miles from Hope and Faith. Garcia flagged the church and set a background program to run checks on the available list of parishioners. Both Edlund and his son, Adam, appeared on this list and Garcia saw that as a good sign.

After Adam graduated from medical school, he and his father sought funding from various religious groups and fundraisers to open a private hospital. Edlund purchased the Glennan Bratwood Psychiatric Facility and it was immediately remodeled and branded with the name Hope and Faith Medical Institute, a private hospital dedicated mainly to those of the Catholic faith.

That was where Edlund's trail went cold, but Garcia already had enough to keep going. She cross referenced the list of parishioners with the list of Hope and Faith's benefactors and came up with one name: Zachariah Fuller.

Fuller owned a small chain of hotels and was, according to the large donations to both Hope and Faith and Saint Teresa's, a devout Catholic man. Garcia checked into the hotels and located one just three blocks from the hospital. She bypassed the hotel's firewall and skimmed the guest list. She noted something strange about the east wing. The whole section was marked 'permanent residences.'

They'd found their commune.

Bringing all of the flagged material to the forefront of her screens, Garcia dialed Hotch's number, intent on blowing this case wide open.


	37. Clear

Rossi sent six members of the SWAT team around to the back of the house. The other four members accompanied him in the front. It was a nice house—old, but well taken care of—with a wrap-around porch and two floors, not including the basement. From the blueprints Garcia had sent, it would be easy to clear. They all had their orders.

Rossi tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. He led his group in through the front, clearing room after room until both groups met in the middle. With a few hand signals, the unit split back up, this time into three groups. Rossi took two men upstairs with him, careful about checking around the corners before coming into view. The stairs were always his least favorite part about clearing a house. He was up them quickly though.

The stairs led directly into a long hallway. Two doors to their right, one to their left. One officer broke off to clear the single room while Rossi and the second officer took the two to the right.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Put your hands in the air, slowly."

Rossi joined the officer closest to him to assist with the arrest. Carver Edlund, AKA Charles Shurley, was wanted for conspiracy to commit kidnapping and murder, aiding and abetting known fugitives, torture, and a myriad of other crimes—anything they could charge him with, really. Hotch had suspected that Edlund's son may also be in the house. When Rossi peered into the room, however, he knew something wasn't right.

A man sat in a chair facing away from the door. His head was tilted to the side and Rossi could just make out some liquid dripping from it. His first thought was that it was water, but when the drop hit the chair and fell slowly, leaving behind a thin trail of red, he knew what it was. The unit moved into the room slowly to surround the man, but they lowered their weapons at what they discovered.

It was Edlund alright. He had been in some sort of altercation. His left eye was swollen shut. His jaw hung at an awkward angle showing gaps of missing teeth. Blood dripped from the back of his head and a small trail of it came from his nose. His ears were, perhaps, the only parts of him intact. There were multiple stab wounds and lacerations covering the rest of his body. Edlund had died painfully, that was for sure. Now that he was really looking, Rossi could see that the wetness of the blood soaked into the plush carpet implied he'd died recently. When Rossi checked for a pulse, he noticed the body was still warm. Their new Unsub may still be in the house.

"The house has been cleared," one of the SWAT members informed him. "There's no one here but us."

Rossi amended his thought. Their new Unsub may still be in the general vicinity.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Hotch and Prentiss each led a unit through the church. Luckily, on Tuesday afternoon, there weren't many parishioners to move out of the line of fire. Two men and a woman sat in varying positions in the nave. Members of the team quickly removed them from the building, none of them even putting up a token protest. Civilians escorted from the building, they continued through the church, clearing rooms and pews as they went. Prentiss found Pastor James Morton in his office. It took only seconds to put him cuffs and read him his rights. She was unnecessarily rough with the pastor, but not enough to cause any problems down the line. She was just happy that they were finally catching the bastards.

Hotch led his team down to the basement. From Dean's accounts, he knew they'd been kept underground and the basement seemed like their best chance of finding him—assuming that Dean was even put back in his previous prison. Hotch cleared the stairwell quickly and took quick stock of his surroundings at the bottom of the stairs. There was a long row of shelves along the back wall, though the other three were bare. On the floor, in the center of the room, was a small, metal door that Hotch assumed served as a hatch between the basement and The Pit. There were traces of blood on the floor and Hotch informed the members of his unit to try not to step in them of they could avoid it. While the others finished clearing the small room, checking to be sure no one was hiding behind the boxes or shelves, Hotch gripped the metal handle and twisted. The latch gave and Hotch pulled the door upward toward himself to reveal Perdition. Two of the officers shined their lights down into the hole, looking for any sign of life. There was none.

It took some doing, but eventually two SWAT members were lowered into The Pit. The smell was horrible and, even with the glowing bulb above their heads, it was too dark to see by. They used their flashlights to look around. The place was empty but for a roomful of dead bodies and something they thought Hotch should see.

Hotch was also lowered into the hole. He had urge to plug his nose at the smell, but he adjusted to it after a minute or so. He looked around at the cages, at the decrepit state of the prison, and found a feeling he didn't feel often—pity. He tried to stifle it, but it was there in spades. How Dean had survived this place and come out largely intact, he didn't know. An officer waved him over to one of the rooms.

"I thought you might want to see this," he said.

Hotch pulled out his own flashlight and shined it into the room. The first things the light hit were the legs of a bed. He followed the frame until he came to what the officer had called him down for. Tied to the bed frame with cloth and leather straps, an Angel had been tortured thoroughly. There were scratch and bite marks all over his body. A few precise cuts shone through the large amounts of blood. It was tough to look at, but they had been right to call Hotch down to see it.

He climbed the ladder back up to the basement and met up with Prentiss outside. After being inside The Pit—which was an apt description for the place, Hotch realized—he needed to see the sun.

"Anything?" she asked.

"There are at least two dozen dead and an unidentified tortured Angel. It looks like the prisoners retaliated and pulled him into The Pit."

"Victims?"

"I don't know. There doesn't seem to be anyone alive down there, but the bodies in the room are ripe enough that it's safe to say they're pretty old—except for the Angel. Someone had to be there not too long ago."

Prentiss thought before she responded. "If they somehow got word that we were on our way, they could have disposed of the prisoners… either that or transferred them elsewhere."

"I don't know," Hotch said. "There's something about the Angel down there that makes me think they didn't transfer them and, according to Novak, they still need Dean for their apocalypse so I'm sure that _he's_ still alive at the very least."

"I thought Reid said Dean was the only one who could stop them." She was confused. "Wouldn't they want him dead?"

Hotch shook his head. "They believe that, once they free Lucifer, Dean will become some sort of savior. He's supposed to be the one to fight the devil, which is what they want. They need him alive, but they want him out of the way until they've finished breaking the seals."

"So they'd most likely keep him in The Pit," Prentiss surmised. "Then where are they?"

Hotch didn't answer. He didn't have any idea where they could have gone.


	38. Two Hours Earlier

_Two Hours Earlier_

It didn't surprise Dean that nobody wanted to leave. They'd seen what happened when they broke the rules; they didn't want to deal with the punishments that often followed. In the end, it was that same fear that motivated them. Dean and Meg had had power before, but joined together their orders were law. Once Dean made it clear they had no choice in the matter, the Demons moved quickly enough. Sunny said that the Angel would lower their food soon, just an hour by her count. Dean was glad they wouldn't have to wait too long to put his plan into action. Like he'd told Meg, it wasn't that he didn't know how to escape before, it was just that he'd never thought about it. Like the other Demons, he'd been too worried about the consequences.

Dean was different than the last time he'd been down here. Now he _remembered_. He remembered what freedom was like and he wasn't going to go back without a fight. He'd fought off Alistair for three years. He could handle an hour and an Angel.

By the time the Angel opened the hatch to lower down the box of food, everyone was in position. Dean, the healthiest of all the Demons in The Pit, was on top of the haphazard pyramid they'd constructed. They needed a ladder and all they could use was themselves. He stood on top of two other Angels making him tall enough to reach the ceiling. Dean had to scrunch down a bit so he didn't hit his head, but it gave him the perfect amount of height for what he had to do.

Dean had only a moment's warning before the hatch opened. A loud creak sounded as the handle was turned. Then, a bright light shined into The Pit. Dean knew for a fact that the light the Demons believed to be the sun was actually just a spotlight the Angels had set up.

The Angel's silhouette appeared and the box was lowered down. Quickly—because who knew just how much time they had before the hatch was closed and latched again above their heads?—Dean reached up through Perdition's gate and grabbed the Angel. He pulled roughly and the Angel unwittingly fell into The Pit, into the hands of the Demons who all wanted a piece of him.

Dean left them to their devices while he grabbed the lip of the doorway and hauled himself up. He wasn't expecting there to be a second Angel in the room with him, but all of a sudden, a set of hands was working to shove him back down. Dean fought. He latched onto the Angel's leg, using the man to pull himself out further. He ignored the punches and jabs aimed at him, intent on just getting out.

It took much longer than he expected, but Dean was out. Once he was free, there was nothing to stop him from taking the Angel down. This time, he didn't plan on leaving him to the Demons. He wanted information. From the blubbering look on the Angel's face, he wouldn't even need to resort to violence to get it. He did, however, have a pit full of angry Demons that he needed to free and he couldn't do that without subduing the Angel in his hands. Dean punched once, twice, and the Angel went slack in his arms.

One problem dealt with, Dean moved on to the next. When Cas freed him, there had been a ladder somewhere. Dean looked around the room, spotting a roll-up ladder on a shelf to his far right. He attached it to the ceiling—there were hooks drilled in the perfect spots for it—and lowered the ladder into The Pit.

He could hear the loud screaming of the Angel from below and knew that the Demons wouldn't be able to hear his instructions over the noise. Dean did the only thing he could do. He lowered himself back into The Pit.

The Angel wouldn't last long. There were bites and bruises and lacerations where Meg had sliced with the sharp scalpel. There was too much blood to save him, not that Dean would have even tried. Had he not been thinking about how he would have to serve jail time, he would have killed the Angel himself.

"Quiet," Dean commanded. The room was instantly silent. "Leave the Angel. It's time to leave. Cherry, line everyone up same as check-ups. You will each climb the ladder, one at a time. I will go first. Meg will be last. No arguments and move fast. Now," he barked when they all just stood there.

Dean climbed back out of The Pit and was pleasantly surprised when, as soon as the ladder was unoccupied, another Demon began his ascent. While Demon after Demon climbed up the ladder, Dean rifled through the Angel's pockets. He pulled out the man's wallet, pocketed the bills—one hundred sixty dollars—and waited until the last Demon climbed her way out of Hell.

"Last, Doc?"

Dean smiled at her. "How about a peace offering? I got you a present."

Meg smiled sweetly.

Dean hardened his voice. "Stand against the shelves."

All of the Demons, excluding Meg of course, moved to the far side of the room, leaving her and Dean almost alone with their Angel. Dean kicked him hard in the side. The Angel jerked awake, but still looked dazed. Dean kicked again and this time the Angel coughed and spluttered, but woke up completely. Meg covered his mouth with her good hand when it looked like he was going to scream and held the scalpel to his throat. It was awkward because of the makeshift tourniquet, but effective.

"Nuh-uh-uh," she said sweetly. "No speaking until mommy tells you."

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked her.

"I'm going to burn the whole thing to the ground."

Dean knew she didn't mean it literally. She was going to do what they'd discussed and take down the cult. The Angel in her hands would tell her everything she needed to know to find the leader and Meg had the skills to make them suffer. "Give them a lash from me," he said.

"You aren't staying?" she asked.

"I have a dozen Demons to take care of," Dean said, motioning to the wall where the wayward men and women stood in various stages of filth. "You probably won't have much time. I'll stall for a while, but I'd give you an hour, two tops, before the FBI is knocking down the doors of every Angel involved in this little project here. Oh," Dean said, remembering the cash in his pocket. He pulled out a hundred and handed it over to Meg. "And you'll need some cash to get you wherever you're going."

"Thanks. And I won't need that long." Meg pocketed the cash. "Angel boy here is gonna tell me everything I need to know. Isn't that right?" she asked him, sliding the scalpel up to rest just under his eye.

The Angel looked at the silver blade and nodded frantically, just far enough away from it to keep from stabbing his eye.

Dean smiled at the scene. "Let's go," he ordered.

For the second time, Dean climbed the stairs to exit the basement. It led directly outside, more of a cellar than a basement, though the exit was close to the original building. On Dean's first trip out he hadn't been paying much attention to the surrounding area. He'd been too focused on Castiel and where the Angel had been leading him, not where he was coming from. This time, though, he looked at street signs—Lawrence and Kripke—so that he could lead the team back here.

Also unlike his last escape, it was daytime. He was used to the brightness of the sun since he'd been able to spend so much time in it, but the others weren't as lucky. Many of them covered their eyes completely, the rest shut them tightly or held a hand over their forehead to shadow their squinted eyes. Dean realized he couldn't lead them through town like this. Not only were they covered in filth and blood and malnourished nearly to the point of starvation, but they also couldn't see two feet in front of them in this light.

There were vehicles parked up and down the street, but Dean saw one that he could definitely use—an old Chevy Silverado. It wasn't meant to seat a dozen people, but Dean didn't really care about vehicle safety at the moment. He had more pressing concerns, like just how much shit would hit the fan if an Angel caught the Demons out of The Pit. They needed to get gone, now.

It took some doing, but Dean was able to get the truck started. He fit seven Demons, himself included, in the cab, but he was forced to lay the rest down in the bed. It would be dangerous, probably fatal if they crashed, but it was a hell of a lot better than leaving them down in The Pit. He'd already left them behind once. He wasn't leaving them again.

Dean drove until he found freeway and continued on for a half hour before pulling over at a random fill-er-up joint. He waited another hour to give Meg some time to do what they'd planned on. Glancing at the clock and deciding that he'd given her a large enough head start, he grabbed a single from his pocket and asked the clerk for quarters. It took him a moment of staring at the phone before Dean remembered the number he wanted to dial.

Just as Prentiss was wondering where the Demons were, her cell phone buzzed. "Prentiss," she answered.

"Did anyone ever tell you that it's weird you answer your phone with your name?"

"Dean?" Prentiss asked.

"Yeah. I'm at Schuster's Gas-N-Go off of the I-84. Have a dozen Demons with me who need some help. Can you send some guys our way?"

"Hotch and I can be there in twenty minutes," Prentiss answered.

"Awesome." The phone lady prematurely instructed Dean to insert more quarters so he added another. Stupid payphones. "Can you bring a few ambulances with you? Or a fire truck or something? I wasn't kidding when I said the Demons need help."

"Already done," Prentiss said. "Don't worry, Dean. We'll be there in no time."

It was only fifteen minutes later that Prentiss and Hotch arrived at the gas station, three ambulances in tow. Dean told the Demons who were worst off to ride in the ambulances. Despite their fear of the EMTs, they obeyed without hesitation. Dean was sure the EMTs would have no trouble with them. The doctors, on the other hand, might have their hands full with the Demons. It isn't easy making the transition back to regular life when you've spent the last who-knows-how-long in a cage.

Prentiss stared at Dean sadly and Dean realized that he was still only half clothed. He'd always been careful to hide his scars from the team before, but now she was getting a peek at them firsthand. They were nothing like they were in the pictures she'd seen. She thought that the photos had been bad enough, but now she could see the different textures of his skin where it used to be smooth. There were plenty of long, straight scars from where Alistair had sliced. His back was covered in whip marks. The worst ones, though, were the burn marks that peppered his entire torso, slipping even lower where she couldn't see them beneath his jeans. The long-healed flesh was pebbled and angry. It was painful just to see the scars. Prentiss wondered how Dean had lived so long with the amount of damage he'd taken. Dean wasn't surprised when Prentiss threw her arms around him. He _was_ surprised, however, when Hotch also wrapped him in a hug. Granted, it was much shorter, complete with manly back slaps and all, but it was still a hug. Dean had been sure the man had given up on him. From the single gesture, Dean could see that he'd been wrong about thinking the team would give up on him. It was nice to know they hadn't.

He rode with them back to the hospital—his third visit in just under two weeks—while the rest of the Demons rode in either an ambulance or a squad car. All of them were going to the same place, but Dean was sure he wouldn't ever see them again. It wouldn't be good for them to know that the man who'd caused them so much pain was staying in the same hospital. It probably wouldn't do any good for them to know he was on the same _planet_, but there was only so much he could do to appease their minds. Staying as far away as possible seemed the best thing to do.

Dean drifted off on the ride to the hospital. Prentiss had to knock on his window to wake him when they arrived and he appreciated the save. He'd been in the middle of a nightmare—one of his worst ones—and the knocking came just in time. He gasped, sitting straight up in his seat, and concentrated on remembering who he was. He was Dean Winchester. He had a brother, Sammy. He was not a killer anymore. He didn't have any reason to torture anyone ever again. He wasn't in The Pit. He'd gotten out. When his breathing returned to normal, he walked with Prentiss and Hotch into the emergency room. He had a few new scrapes, but it was nothing compared to his previous state.

Prentiss and Hotch left him alone with the doctor while she checked him over. His old wounds weren't infected and his new cuts would heal well on their own. He'd gained a little weight and was well on his way to being healthy in every way but his state of mind. Dean knew the agents planned on sending him to a hospital—a more permanent one this time—to help him. He didn't know whether it was for the best or not, but he did know one thing. He wouldn't let them lock him up again.

When the doctor finished, Dean feigned sleep until the agents were forced to leave him alone to do their jobs. He knew they would be back and he wouldn't have much time, but even a few minutes would have been enough.

Dean grabbed the small pad of paper and pen that sat on the table next to his bed.

_Sammy_, he wrote. _I'm sorry about this, but I need some time to sort things out. Don't worry, this vacation's temporary. Promise. See you soon. Dee._

Dean changed into his clothes. Someone had thought to put them in a bag on the guest chair and he was forever grateful that he wouldn't have to run in his hospital gown. In the muss of the emergency room, it was surprisingly easy for Dean to slip past the two suits who were supposed to be guarding him. With a silent apology to his brother and the team of profilers he considered family, Dean strolled away from the hospital and out into the sunlight he could never seem to get enough of. He didn't know where he was going just yet, but he did know that, wherever he ended up, it had to have a lot of sun. Maybe he'd go to Arizona and see the Grand Canyon. He'd always wanted to go there. He'd just never had the chance.

Now, though, the whole world was open to him and he had the one thing that would let him appreciate it: freedom.


	39. Epilogue: Six Months Later

_Six Months Later_

Sam sat in a metal foldout chair in the back of the room. During the day, the room was filled with long tables and chairs for bingo and other community center related activities. Now, though, there were about twenty chairs set up facing a small podium in the middle of the room. Sam had been coming here for four months. He always chose a seat in the back but it was mostly out of courtesy to the other members. It could be a bit hard to see over his head sometimes.

Reid had taken to coming with him whenever he wasn't on a case and Sam was grateful for it. If it hadn't been for the young agent, Sam was sure he'd still be where he was six months ago with a needle in his arm, not really caring whether he lived or died. It had been tough, really tough, with Dean gone again, but this time he had someone to help him through it. Dean would be back eventually, he assured himself. Dean made a promise and Sam knew that Dean never broke a promise, not to him. And when Dean was back, Sam would be good to go.

The meeting was relatively short and Sam didn't share this time. He didn't like to talk much, preferring to listen to how others coped. Sometimes, he would offer a kind word or a shoulder to cry on, though the latter often made him feel just a bit uncomfortable. The meetings were good for him. It seemed as if his life was revolving more around his addiction than it had when he was actually on drugs, but it was better this way. He could deal with his problems one step at a time, and if he sounded like an NA pamphlet, he couldn't really care less. The steps were working for him and that was all that mattered.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Garcia checked her computer again after entering her office. It had been six months and there was still no word on Dean. Sam wasn't too worried about it, much to Garcia's chagrin, but it was in her nature to worry about her team while they were away and Dean was no exception. She was really going to tear that man a new one when he decided to make an appearance. Sam was adamant that he would. Dean always kept his promises, he said. If Dean promised that it was temporary and that they would see him soon, then that was how it would be.

'Soon,' she was beginning to realize, was a relative concept. To her, 'soon' meant, 'I'm going to the grocery store, be back soon,' not 'I'm going to disappear interminably and stay out of contact for at least six months. See you soon.' Six months was not soon in her opinion, not that she could do anything about it.

Still, though, she kept her background searches going for him, just waiting for some sign that he was still out there, alive and breathing. She knew Sam was right. Despite the things Dean had done, she knew that if he made a promise, he would follow through. He was a righteous man after all.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Dean hung his coat on the back of his chair in the small cabin he'd built in the woods. He never made it as far south as Arizona, but he had yet to regret the decision. The Boise National Forest was huge, thousands of square miles to lose himself in and it provided the privacy he sought. Out here in the woods, no one was there to hear him wake screaming in the middle of the night or get hurt when he accidentally slipped into an Alistair-type mindset. He belatedly realized that secluding himself like this could turn him into one of the serial killers he used to hunt, but he wasn't in any real danger of that. He may have liked the feel of a knife in his hand, but that was all back in The Pit. Things were different now that he was free. He didn't need it anymore.

Most of his days were spent tending the land and hunting for food. He could stomach meat pretty easily now and he counted that as a good thing. It was a little too late seeing as the only hamburgers he could find were out in civilization, but he'd take meat where he could get it and sometimes wild hare would just have to do. He had a nice little vegetable garden going right outside his cabin. It had taken some doing to keep the critters away from it, but it was no problem to fasten a gate out of some of the nearby branches. He wasn't entirely without supplies after all. He'd invested in a few choice hunting weapons and some necessary supplies that could keep him a while—years actually, though he didn't plan on staying that long. Who knows? Maybe he would be content to continue living on as a mountain man. He could die happily here. The sun almost always shined overhead. He could feel the wind rustling through the trees. The sounds of animals and critters told him that he wasn't alone, that he was outside in the fresh air, and that he was free.

Dean couldn't seem to get enough of that word. He'd never take it for granted again.

He was free now to do whatever he wanted, but now that the dreams and nightmares were dying down and his flashbacks were more manageable, what he wanted wasn't what he had. He'd been more than content with his situation before, when he was so lost and broken that this had really been the only option for him. Now that he was getting better and starting to see things clearly, he wanted to go back home where his friends and family were waiting for him.

Dean steeled himself to the thought that he may need to check into some sort of medical facility or, at the very least, see a shrink. It would be worth it, though, to see Sammy and the team again. There was a lot of catching up to do.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

Hotch was glad it was finally over. True, Dean was still missing, but he would turn up sooner or later, he knew. A man like Dean Winchester wouldn't stay down for long. He'd survived John Winchester and Hell and everything in between. Taking a few months off to situate himself wasn't the worst thing the man could have done. Hotch had no doubt that he would be back, though. The note he'd left had been short, but when Winchester makes a promise, you better watch it because he always keeps it. He'd learned that the hard way, a few times.

At home, Hotch poured himself a celebratory drink. The cases were mostly closed thanks to the man in question. They'd made seventeen arrests, including two moles in the police department. All were successfully convicted and they closed over three dozen missing persons cases in the process. It had been messy and a bit touch and go for a while, but the evidence had pulled through in the end. They'd flipped a couple of the Angels, offering reduced sentences in exchange for information. Only two had taken the deals—the newer editions to the garrison apparently—but the others had remained loyal to the end. All but four had been given life sentences. The two who'd agreed to the deal proposed by the FBI were receiving twenty-five years at medium security facilities with the option of parole. Adam Milligan had been found three days after the death of his father in a similar state to the man, though very much alive. They hadn't caught the Unsub who'd done it. Milligan was adamant that it hadn't been Dean, but a sadistic blonde woman who'd been in The Pit. She was still missing. Milligan was given the death penalty. It may be quite a few years until it was carried out, but eventually he would die of lethal injection. The fourth man was James Novak, who still insisted on being called Castiel. Hotch had been able to get the majority of the charges dropped and he was currently serving five years in the Canyon County Jail. His lawyer had tried for an insanity plea. The judge wasn't buying it. Hotch thought that the lawyer was right, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

There was no sign of the people Novak referred to as Anna, Gabriel, and Balthazar. Novak was tightlipped about anything that could lead the police to his associates, but Hotch was certain that they did more good than harm so, though the search for them continued, he wasn't too worried about the consequences of their circumvention.

In all, things had worked out well.

For the first time in a long time, Hotch was content with his life. Dean's case was finally closed. His team was healthy, happy, and safe. No one was breathing down his neck to solve some high-profile case. Now was one of those rare times Hotch could sit back and enjoy the lull. Rossi had invited the team over tomorrow for a home cooked Italian meal and he may just decide to attend. Hotch swallowed the last few sips of his drink, took off his tie, and put his feet up to unwind for a moment. It was a rare thing for him to be relaxed like this.

Hotch smiled amusedly for a moment, not even the least bit vexed, when the illusion was shattered. His work phone rang sharply with the promise of a new case.

End.

CM~SPN~CM~SPN

_Good, bad, great, dreadful, tremendous, appalling, awesome, horrible, amazingly psychotic? What do you think? Now it's over, the end, finito, finished, which makes it the best time to comment! Seriously, Fearless Readers, anything is welcome. Even a quick one liner about the time at that one part when that thing happened (totally my favorite part by the way). Either way, it's been a pleasure. Hope you enjoyed yourselves. Read on!_

_Laura Foster :)_


End file.
